The King Nobody Wanted
by David Dee
Summary: (AU) A different outcome on the Trident sends the war between the Dragons and the Stags spinning in strange and terrifying directions, with great changes in the lives of those who live in Westeros...
1. Prologue

**PROLOGUE**

It seemed to Ser Hugor Waters as he lay there, pinned beneath his horse, that the waters of the Trident beside him were running red.

_I am tired. That is all. The waters I look on are no redder than any other waters. I am tired. That is all._ His eyes went to the two figures lying near him. He had watched them come together, and watched them battle there, on the Trident, and he had watched them wound each other, and he had watched them fall. They had not moved since then. Prince Rhaegar had said a woman's name, shortly after he fell. Lord Robert had said nothing, but only given a wordless groan.

It seemed a great priviledge, to a poor hedge knight, to have seen all this. Ser Hugor was not a knight of great standing. He was a simple man, the bastard son of a petty lord who lived in a petty holdfast, whose father had cared just enough to grant him training in arms and not a bit more. Still, it had brought him to this moment, and so Ser Hugor felt it was enough.

Ser Hugor realized he couldn't feel his legs. _They have gone to sleep. They have been under the horse so long, that they have fallen to sleep, and I cannot feel them. That is all._ He cursed his horse again. It was a skittish thing, unused to war, and had managed to slip as he rode it across the Trident. _What a tale this will be. How I was beaten on the Trident by my very own horse. And how they will laugh to hear it._

"Robert?" came a voice. Ser Hugor watched as a man on horseback rode by. He tried to attract his notice, but the only noise he could make was a gasp so faint, even he could barely hear it. _I am dazed. I am dazed, and my voice is not yet working as it should_...

"Ned," groaned Lord Robert, stirring faintly. Ned rode to his side and dismounted. Robert attempted to raise himself, then fell back. He took a few unsteady breaths, then looked at his friend. "Ned... Did... did I kill him? Is Rhaegar... dead?"

Ned nodded, his expression pained. "Yes. Yes, you have killed Prince Rhaegar."

Ser Hugor felt a chill throughout his body. He had known that the Prince had been lying there, very still for quite some time, but even so, he had hoped that perhaps... perhaps the Prince lived. _After all, I have been lying here for just as long, and I am not dead_. But he was dead, and Hugor felt empty. _Robert has killed Rhaegar_, the hedge knight thought. _I came here for him, and the Lord of Storm's End killed him, just the same, as if I wasn't here at all_. And yet as he stared at the man, he realized that the Prince had killed Lord Robert, just as Lord Robert had killed the Prince.

Robert let out a strange and ghastly chuckle to Ned's news. "Good. Good." And then another long silence. "Got... what I wanted. Tell... tell... Lyanna... did it... for her. All... for... her..." And then his body simply... slackened, and he was silent.

So died Robert Baratheon, Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. _I have seen a great and terrible thing_, thought Ser Hugor, who realized that darkness was growing around the edges of his vision. _Men will sing of this day_. But they would not sing of him, he realized. _I am dying. I am dying and no one will sing of me. _What was there to sing of? He was a petty hedge knight, who came to fight by the Prince because...

_Because at Harrenhal, when he bested me, he gave me back my armor and my horse, without asking me to pay a thing. And then he had a drink with me, and told me that I had run a good course, though I had not, I had not, and that was why he had beaten me..._

That had been enough for Hugor, who had been staying out of the war, to come when he heard the Prince would be leading the army. _It seemed almost foolish now... But that is enough. That is enough. I am dead. I am Ser Hugor Waters, who is dead, and this is my song, the song that no one will sing..._

The darkness blotted out the rest of his vision, as he wondered what the tune would be.


	2. The Old Falcon

**THE OLD FALCON**

Jon Arryn stared at the dead bodies of the Prince and the Lord of Storm's End before him and suppressed an urge to swear. "Divided in life, united in death," he said at last.

Hoster Tully nodded. "It's almost poetic when you put it that way." He coughed. "Still... damned inconvenient." Jon shot his fellow Lord Paramount a reproachful look, to which Hoster politely bowed his head. "So... what now?" the Lord of Riverun asked.

"Ned is heading to Storm's End as we speak to break the siege and liberate Stannis," said Jon quietly. "Lord Stannis now. And from there... we shall see."

"The words 'Lord Stannis' did not readily leap to your lips, I noticed," said Hoster. "Let us hope the words 'King Stannis' find a more... wide acceptance in the near future." He sighed. "Otherwise, I fear we are in for some trouble."

Jon winced. "Hoster... do you have to chide me with things I know perfectly well..."

"Yes," answered the Lord of the Riverlands. "Both as your friend, and your goodfather. People joined this rebellion for Robert. We have to hope they'll stay in it for his memory." He shook his head. "I've just watched the... late Lord Frey pledge his support to our cause, then go white as a sheet when he learned Robert was dead. If he gets a good chance to unpledge himself, I think he might take it."

"And do what?" asked Jon. "Throw himself on Aerys' mercy? Robert's dead-and so is Rhaegar. At the moment, the only choices are between Stannis and Aerys' madness."

"They could crown Aegon..." began Hoster.

"A babe," said Jon forcefully. "A babe of whom the world knows almost nothing now, save he's Rhaegar's son and Aerys' grandson..."

"And they know so much more of Stannis?" stated Hoster.

"They know that he was loyal to his brother, and has kept Storm's End through a long siege," stated Jon. "It will be enough for now." _Oh, please, by the Seven, let it be enough..._

"Perhaps for those with us now it will be," said Hoster, with a nod. "But what of Dorne? And the Reach? And the Westerlands?" He leaned forward. "Tywin Lannister has sat through all this and done nothing-as yet. What if he decides to now? And what if he does not object to having a child on the throne? Especially if, for example, those around that child name him Hand?"

Jon shut his eyes, suddenly feeling very tired. _ I am an old man, whose buried family in this war. How long before I can rest?_ "If that is the case, Hoster, then we must hope we can beat him."


	3. Jaime

**JAIME**

_I am glad I will never sit on this again,_ Jaime Lannister thought to himself, sleepily. _It is a damned uncomfortable seat_... He glanced at the body, cooling on the ground of the throne room_. And I am even gladder you will never sit on it again, Aerys. Have a pleasant time in the Hells. I hear there's a lot of fire there, so you should feel at home._

Jaime frowned to himself. He'd hoped at first, when the news of the Trident reached Aerys that it would calm him... and it had a little, at first. The mad old king spent his time chuckling about dead Lord Robert and dead Prince Rhaegar in downright sickening manner for a day or so... and then he'd gone on planning to set all of King's Landing aflame. Plans that seemed to quicken once it became obvious the rebels were still in the field. Jaime could still hear the King's rantings if he thought on it. _"They will see! They will all see! They have woken the dragon, and the dragon shall show them blood and FIRE!"_

He'd been both relieved and terrified when his father arrived. And when the Sack began... he'd known what he must do.

He cracked his eyes open and glanced at Aerys' corpse. And he had most certainly done it...

"Jaime," came his father's voice. "What are you doing?"

Jaime blinked and saw him standing there, in the doorway of the throne room. Lord Tywin, tall and imposing, eyes watching Jaime with naked disapproval. "I'm... I'm sorry, father," he said, standing up. "I... I was... tired."

Tywin gave a slow nod, a frown appearing on his face that indicated that he personally didn't hold with being tired. "You are fortunate, Jaime, that only I witnessed this. What you have done here is... noteworthy enough without adding flourishes like this to it."

Jaime nodded as he approached his father's side. "Yes. Yes. I understand. Yes." He coughed. "So... what do we do now? Are..."

"You will do nothing," stated Tywin flatly. "Stay in your quarters. Appear... contrite. Call a septon to talk to, if you feel a need for it. As for me-I have already sent messengers to Lord Arryn with an initial offer. I hope to have his reply before their forces arrive here. I suspect they will prove... agreeable. Their new Stag King is still sitting in Storm's End, eating rats if the reports are true. They will need every bit of help in bringing him to the Iron Throne, and I think they will appreciate our... clearing the way for him."

Jaime felt a certain sick feeling in his stomach at his father's comments. "Father... what do you mean...?"

Tywin regarded his son coldly. "What do you imagine I mean?"

That sick feeling grew into outright nausea. "Father... father... what... what have you done?" asked Jaime.

Jaime Lannister thought he saw the slightest of smiles come to Tywin's face, though he could not be sure. "What had to be done," answered the Lord of Casterly Rock, in a voice that was as hard and cold as the castle he ruled over.


	4. Eddard

**EDDARD**

Eddard did his best not to look around him as he walked to Stannis' tent. The ground still stank of blood, rot, and burnt bodies. _All this butchery, and for what?_ he thought to himself. _I was going to offer them terms_...

And perhaps Mace Tyrell would have listened to him, if he'd been able to-but by the time Eddard arrived the Lord of Highgarden was in the middle of an effort to storm Storm's End. Ned had listened to his prisoner Mathis Rowan tell the tale, of his lord hearing the news of Robert's death, of the lengthy debate that followed that, and of Mace's decision to chance it all on one swift action. Lord Tyrell had hoped to win immortality by ending the war in a single stroke, in a battle that singers would write songs of for centuries to come.

Eddard Stark did not consider himself an expert on singers and their songs, but he didn't think that men would sing much on the Storming of Storm's End, and that if they did, it would be to castigate the folly, vanity, and ineptitude of one man. Mace Tyrell's soldiers had battered at the walls three times and been repulsed each time, with ever greater casualties. The men of the Reach were in the middle of their fourth attempt when Eddard arrived with his army. He'd had no choice in the matter-he'd had to attack. Despite their exhaustion, and Mace's incompetent generalship, Tyrell's men had fought well-the battle had been nearer than Eddard would have liked. And then Stannis had issued forth from Storm's End.

Stannis and his men were starving and tired, but they fought with a vicious fury despite all that-perhaps _because_ of that. And that had been enough to turn the tide. The great army of the Reach that had besieged Storm's End for months was finished. As far as Eddard could see, the only immortality Mace Tyrell had won was that his Seven Gods offered to all their loyal followers, if their septons told the truth. The Lord of the Reach had fallen from his horse, and been hacked to death by a crowd of Stannis' men. The body's wounds had been grievous-it had looked to Eddard as if beasts had savaged it.

_This war is making wildlings of us all_, Eddard thought, as he entered the great tent. Stannis Baratheon sat in the darkness of it, the tent that had previously been Mace Tyrell's. A cursory glance showed that quite a few Tyrell roses in the decorations had been torn or despoiled. A small meal had been set before Stannis-it'd been barely touched, despite the obvious hunger of the man._ But perhaps it is not food he's hungry for_, Eddard thought, then chided himself for being so impressionable.

Stannis' lifted his icy blue eyes as Eddard stepped forward. "Lord Stark," he stated flatly.

"Lord Baratheon..." began Eddard.

Stannis shut his eyes. "So it is true then. Robert is dead."

"Yes," said Eddard quietly. "I... I was with him when he... passed... He..." Eddard took a deep breath. "He was like a brother to me, and..."

Stannis seemed completely unmoved. "He _was_ a brother to me," he said calmly. "I see little reason to talk of his passing, Stark. He is dead. We live, and must deal with the world my brother has made..." The frown on the Lord of the Stormlands' face was unmistakable. "Lord Redwyne wishes to parley. I wish you and some of your commanders to be with me when he does so. I fear I have few men fit to meet an emissary at the moment."

Eddard nodded. "Jon Arryn sent me to offer terms..."

"Jon Arryn will not be king," stated Stannis. "**I** will decide the terms to Highgarden. Not he. Is this clear?"

Eddard stiffened slightly. "I believe it is, Lord Baratheon." He gave a slight nod. "I will go gather my commanders." Eddard turned to leave.

"Lord Stark." Eddard glanced back at Stannis. "You have my gratitude for what you have done here today. Had you not come, I might be imprisoned. Or dead."

"It was done for memory of your brother, sir," said Eddard simply.

Stannis gave a curt nod. "I suspected as much. Still, you have my thanks."

Eddard left the tent, passing a short man with brown hair who was heading towards it. His mind had, he realized, played out many first meetings with Lord Stannis. None of them had gone like that.

He found that... worrying.


	5. The She Wolf

**THE SHE WOLF**

Her dreams were of ice and fire.

A winter rose bloomed on a stony shore. A direwolf shuddered under a giant to protect her cub. Seas ran red, then black. King's Landing was on fire, and yet a great glacier stood in its center, apparently untouched. "They will take what is yours! What is ours!" roared the flames. "Will you let them?" A strange groan came from the glacier. "Let them have no shelter, no rest, no place to lay their heads!" A crack appeared in the glacier. A large chunk of ice split off, falling into the flames. And suddenly, she was there, surrounded by the fire, as that huge cold thing moved towards her. She ran, and it did not fall on her, but the ice shattered, and now there were a hundred thousand shards flying through the air, sharp and deadly...

Lyanna Stark awoke, and looked about her. There was no fire raging about her, no ice threatening her life. She was still in the Tower of Joy, lying on her small bed, its sheets stained with sweat and blood. "You're finally up, milady," came a quiet voice. Lyanna turned to see the Kingsguard member standing quietly in the corner.

"Ser Dayne." Lyanna took a deep breath, and shut her eyes. She still felt tired and drained. "What... what has..."

"You had a... difficult birth, milady," said Arthur Dayne.

Lyanna's eyes jolted open. "My... what has happened to my..."

The Sword of Morning smiled gently. "Relax. Your son is fine and healthy..."

Lyanna gave a quick nod. "Give him to me," she said. "Please..."

Arthur Dayne nodded and left the room. Lyanna leaned back, trying to capture a bit of rest. How much time had passed? What had happened? She needed to know... The Kingsguard knight returned with a small woman who Lyanna didn't recognize who held a child tightly to her breast. "You were... feverish, milady," said Arthur quietly. "We... brought a nurse in case..."

"I understand," said Lyanna quietly. She motioned for the child. "Let... let me see him." And then her child was in her arms, small and precious and frail, and for just one bare moment, the unreasonable feeling sprouted in Lyanna's heart that it had all been worth it, even though she knew that to be false. "I... I must know how things stand. Has... the crown won or..._" Tell me who I must mourn, Ser Dayne. I have to know what I've paid for all this._

"It... is hard to say," muttered Arthur. "Much remains... in the balance. Prince Rhaegar and Robert Barathen met in battle on the Trident." He bit his lip, and Lyanna felt a sinking feeling in the pit of her stomach. "They..."

Lyanna felt her son squirm uncomfortably. "Prince Rhaegar has... fallen, hasn't he?"

"Both he and Lord Robert perished in the battle, facing each other," said Arthur. "Since then things have been... unsettled... For the realm, and I fear you and your child personally. Ser Whent and the Lord Commander are... considering our options." There was an uncomfortable silence. "Milady, I wish things could be otherwise. If... If Rhaegar hadn't died..."

"But Rhaegar lived, Ser Dayne," said Lyanna. He stared at her, puzzled, until she kissed her son on the forehead. "My son. Little Rhaegar Targaryen..." She held the child close to her, as if he were buoy on a stormy ocean.


	6. The Old Falcon (II)

**THE OLD FALCON**

Jon Arryn was doing his best to study the dispatches before him when Kevan Lannister entered the chamber of the Small Council which had become the unofficial headquarters for the allies in King's Landing. "My apologies," said the younger man. "I've had much to deal with..."

Hoster Tully idly sipped his wine. "So have we all." The Lord of Riverrun set down his cup. "How is your elder brother?"

Kevan managed a pleasant smile as he took his seat. "He tells me that the way to Bronzegate has been safe and easy. He and my niece should be there with their retinue within a fortnight."

Jon nodded. He was of mixed mind about Tywin's decision to simply... absent himself from King's Landing. On the one hand, it was a rather disquieting sign of the Lord of the Westerlands' famed pride-on the other hand, his younger brother was far easier to deal with._ And besides, we are mostly... waiting here, setting things in place for young Stannis' coming. You cannot blame a father for wishing to leave this behind to see his only daughter wedded._

At least that was Jon kept telling himself, even as a part of him did just that.

"Still no news of Gregor Clegane?" asked Hoster quietly.

"We've had reports of him in Duskendale, in Crackclaw- even in the Saltpans," replied Kevan. "But nothing more definite."

"Astounding that a man so large could vanish so completely," noted Hoster.

"Ser Gregor is a large man, but the world is bigger," stated Kevan levelly. "Even he can hide in it." He gave his golden head a shake. "We want him as badly as you do. He killed three men who we sent to apprehend him, and wounded five more in his escape."

"No one has stated otherwise," said Jon doing his best to sound pleasant and convinced of House Lannister's relative innocence in this matter. Personally, he had his doubts. When Stannis had sent his wishes regarding the killers of Elia Martell and the young Prince and Princess, those two names that had been circulating as rumors had suddenly, remarkably leapt up as fact. Ser Amory Lorch had been found stabbed to death in an alley, to the sorrow of none, while Ser Gregor Clegane had bloodily gone on the run. It was all just a tad too convenient, the manner in which the pair had each, in their own way, been silenced.

"Perhaps my own failure makes me... tense on the subject," said Kevan, green eyes gleaming with what Jon thought was either anger or remorse. "Any word from Highgarden?"

"A few... empty missives," muttered Hoster. "They have received Stannis' terms, and are... considering them. They are stricken with grief by all this bloodshed. They are..."

"...having Randyll Tarly beat us back at Bitterbridge," said Kevan. "I think there is their answer to Stannis' terms. Not that I fault them for it."

"They are not so onerous," stated Jon Arryn, trying his best to smother his feelings that they were far more onerous than the terms he had intended to offer, and indeed than any terms he would offer. "Lord Baratheon is young, and somewhat prickly, I hear."

"Somewhat prickly we have **seen**," noted Hoster with a snort.

Jon simply ignored Lord Tully's comment. "And that long siege... They say Mace feasted before the walls, the silly fool. Stannis' blood will be running hot now. But it will cool in time, and we can get him to see sense."He shook his head. "Besides, the Reach can hardly stand alone."

"It may not be alone," said Hoster. "Dorne's been quiet as well, and something tells me their blood is also running hot at the moment." He folded his hands before him. "Elia was well-beloved there."

"It was a sack," muttered Kevan, looking away. "Men were on edge-drunk on killing. They had orders to avoid such... mad slaughter, but when you go to war... sometimes the curs that go with you..."

"Regret changes nothing. The lady is still dead, Ser Lannister," noted Hoster with a sigh. "And the rumors of Dragonstone..." He shook his head. "When we came to King's Landing, I thought this war all but won, barring an extraordinary mishap. Now..." He shrugged.

"I would hardly say we are in a bad spot," said Jon.

"No, but I fear there's a long, hard slog ahead of us," answered Hoster. "And in truth I cannot stay here much longer-I need to get back to Riverrun. The Blackwoods and the Brackens have started to get quarrelsome, my goodbrother Lord Whent wants his sons' bones brought back to him... And there are a thousand other things to do. The Riverlands do not run themselves, gentlemen."

Kevan Lannister regarded the older man. "And your troops?"

"I'll leave them here under Brynden," said Hoster. A sudden frown touched his face. "He enjoys playing the soldier, so you'll hear no complaint from him." The acid in Lord Tully's voice suggested they'd hear no complaint from the Lord of the Riverlands' either.

"Well, if you must, we cannot keep you from your duty. We'll miss your guidance," said Jon. It occurred to him this war seemed to be leaving him lonelier the longer it went on._ So many good friends, either dead or away_, he thought. _And a few now enemies_. He felt very old, and tired all at once.


	7. The Foul-Smelling Flower

**THE FOUL-SMELLING FLOWER**

Garth Tyrell waddled through the halls of Highgarden, and listened to the cries of a babe echoing down them. He briefly wondered if it were his grandniece, or their... youngest guest._ I suppose it doesn't matter_._ Both the poor dears have so much to cry about. And I doubt they even realize it, yet._ Reaching the solar, he was unsurprised to see his sister-in-law leafing through the letters. "A few more for you," he stated, and then followed it with a belch. _I must watch my meals_, he reminded himself, with the slightly sad realization that of course he would not.

Olenna Tyrell, the Dowager Lady of Highgarden known to most around her as the Queen of Thorns, picked them up deftly and opened them. "Hmmmph. Lord Florent is pledging his loyalty and undying support in this..." She cleared her throat. "...'Most difficult time'."

"Oh, dear," said Garth. "That does sound ominous." He coughed, and attempted to control a burst of flatulence he felt coming on. "I suppose you want me to... keep an eye on the Brightwater?"

"As if it were filled with poachers," she muttered. "Which is not far from the truth." She shook her head. "Tell me, do the Seven hand every Florent a large dose of foolish ambition to go with those awful ears of theirs, or is it simply the ones I've met?" She wrinkled her nose. "Garth... really."

"I overindulged in some Dornish peppers earlier," he muttered apologetically. He cleared his throat and got to work changing the subject. "Lord Tarly seems hopeful..."

"Lord Tarly seems eager to write his name in history's book in bright bloody red letters," said Olenna. "Still, he has the ability to do it. Something poor, silly Mace lacked." She frowned to herself. "Has... has the body been taken care of?"

Garth nodded. "He rests with his fathers now."

"One hopes that they are giving him a piece of their minds," muttered Olenna. She shook her head. "Such folly, Garth! Such bloody, stupid folly! And that silly nephew of mine... making it worse... saddling us with..."

"You could always agree to Baratheon's terms," stated Garth quietly.

Olenna nodded. "I could. Highgarden bends the knee. Highgarden pays a tribute. My grandchildren go to King's Landing as... guarantors of the peace. As well, other... matters." The scowl on the Queen of Thorns face only grew deeper. "And my dear young Willas starts his reign with every lord in the Reach seeing him as not only a child but a weakling, ruled by a king with no love for his house..." She sighed. "Garth, I fear we may be good and buggered in the long run. But I think we might be able to keep the buggery to a minimum with some careful effort on our parts."

Garth chuckled as he considered his reply, when he heard the sound of small feet behind him. Turning around, he saw the small form of Highgarden's most honored guest.

"Your Grace," he said with a sweeping bow directed at young Viserys Targaryen. "I thought you were in bed."

The boy fixed Garth and Olenna with a gaze that Garth found... unsettling. "I couldn't sleep." He looked at the pair for a long moment. "Father says that our subjects are either traitors or loyal. Which are you?"

"Why loyal, Your Grace," said Garth. "Deeply and unfailingly loyal." As he said it, Garth Tyrell wondered how long that would be the case.


	8. Cersei

**CERSEI**

Cersei Lannister stood tall and proud next to her father in the great pavilion that had been laid before Bronzegate. Both and she and Lord Tywin were clad in the crimson and gold of their house, wearing the most opulent clothing they possessed. She took a deep breath, to calm her fluttering stomach. _You are a lion, and the lion does not show fear before lesser beasts_, she reminded herself, glancing at her father. Tywin Lannister stood still like a magnificent statue, the banner of House Lannister spread over him. If he felt any discomfort standing here, he didn't show it. Cersei turned her eyes back to the banners of Stannis and his supporters, and tried to name them. Some were easy to recognize, like the stag of Baratheon, or the dire wolf of Stark, others took some effort, like the lizard-lion of House Reed, or the lightning bolt of Dondarrion but many were strange to her. _I will have to learn them all_, she thought, as she puzzled over a very odd one-a black ship with what appeared to be an onion on its sails. It would look very ill for a queen not to know her subjects banners...

She wished Jaime were here. She had not seen him for months now. Cersei had hoped to join him at King's Landing, for a brief reunion, but father had insisted she rush to him on the road to Bronzegate. Her heart bled for her brother-all alone in King's Landing, with no friends around him, surrounded by a thousand accusing eyes._ I wish I were there right now, to put my arms around him, and tell him that everything is all right, that he will always have me_...

But that would be a lie-a sweet lie, but a lie nonetheless. Her father was wedding her to Stannis Baratheon, to save her house, and her brother. "He is a young man with ideas," Tywin Lannister had said to her, as they rode to Bronzegate, "but a young man nonetheless. And the favor of young men is easily won by beauty and the minds of young men easily distracted from grand ideas. Bewitch him. Win his affection, and make him more... agreeable." His eyes had fixed on hers as he said this. "You can do this, my dear?"

Cersei gulped. _It is for Jaime's sake. Jaime killed the old king, that awful old man, and now... now they are calling for his head. I must wed Stannis to save his life_. She felt a chill and wished her soon-to-be-betrothed would hurry up and show himself. It was uncomfortable standing here in this miserable weather.

As if in response to her wish, a crowd made its way from that small sea of banners. A large man with an antlered helmet stood at its head, clad in green and gold. That had to be Stannis. As he got closer, Cersei got her first look at her husband-to-be. Stannis was tall, and looked strong, but his face was thin and jagged and pinched looking, with a large jaw and hollow cheeks. Cersei suppressed a frown-not an ugly man, exactly, but not a handsome one either. _It is for Jaime's sake-Jaime and the Lannisters. I-I will be queen._ Somehow, she couldn't make herself believe the last part.

Tywin took her hand, and then swiftly knelt before Stannis. Cersei followed her father's example, doing her best to follow her father's advice._ Smile at him. Look at him softly and tenderly, all full of sweetness._ "Your Grace," declared Tywin grandly, his face a hard mask that gave away nothing, "I come here to pledge my leal fealty. With me is my daughter, who has fallen in love with you from afar from the mere hearing of your great valor and nobility, and for whom I humbly ask the honor of being granted your hand in marriage."

To her surprise, Stannis did not look at her, and instead kept his eyes fixed on her father. "Why do you kneel, Lord Lannister? You are Lord Paramount of the Westerlands, and I am Lord Paramount of the Stormlands. We meet here as equals." Stannis' voice was hard and rough. _He sounds like an old man_, thought Cersei, who couldn't help but remember Prince Rhaegar's lovely voice singing, or even the fair sound of her sweet Jaime's laughter.

"Can the Seven Kingdoms go without a king?" asked Tywin, his voice ringing in the pavilion. "I say they cannot. And that being the case... what other king can there be but you?"

Stannis frowned at that. "There are Targaryens yet alive," he noted. "What of them? I cannot claim the Iron Throne by mere whim. To do so would be mad folly."

"Your Grace's natural humility and care for the laws do you great credit," said another voice. Cersei looked to the side to see Grand Maester Pycelle tottering his way from her father's retinue. "But I must say they are unwarranted in this case. You, Stannis Baratheon, are the lawful and most apparent King of these Seven Kingdoms, by simple and well-practiced precedent." Cersei blinked. She had wondered why the Grand Maester had come with them from King's Landing. Somehow, finding out why was proving... disquieting. As Pycelle tottered to the center of the great green, Cersei felt her leg twitch in discomfort._ Not now,_ she thought, doing her best to keep her movements subtle and a smile on her face.

The Grand Maester cleared his throat, and unrolled a large scroll. "Now then, Your Grace, your accession is based on the same sound principles as that of your great-grandfather, Aegon V. When your most honored ancestor took the throne, it was based on the decision of the Grand Council of the Realm. Aegon was the youngest of his father's four sons, though the two eldest had predeceased him. His third brother had taken the vows of my order, which were felt to be enough to remove him from the succession. However, both Prince Daeron-his eldest brother-and Prince Aerion-his second eldest-had left issue."

_Shut up, old man_, thought Cersei, hoping against hope that Pycelle would stop talking soon. She did not see how any of this concerned what was happening now. _Aerion... Prince Aerion... where have I heard that name?_ She tried to remember, but could not. The twitch in her leg was becoming an irritating ache, and her knees were starting to throb. She looked at her father, but aside from a slight downward twitch of his mouth, he seemed utterly unmoved. Stannis likewise stood stiff as a statue, frowning, though Cersei saw much of his retinue twitching, and at least one yawning._ Lucky man..._

"Now," continued Pycelle, manifestly warming to his subject, "Daeron's child was a daughter and thus, by long-established precedent, behind Aegon by the normal principles of succession. However, Aerion had left a son, Maegor." Cersei blinked. That seemed odd to her somehow... and then the name Aerion leapt to the forefront of his mind. _The Prince Who Thought He Was A Dragon, the one who died drinking wildfire_... "Despite young Maegor's excellent claim," continued Pycelle, "the combination of his own extreme youth, and his late father's known instability lead the Council to exclude him from the succession." The Maester nodded at Stannis. "Your Grace, this renders the situation as clear as the sun in the sky on a bright and cloudless day. With the deaths of Prince Rhaegar and your most worthy brother Robert, you are the oldest and closest male heir in the line of descent not bound by oath from the throne. Aerys' surviving children-like Prince Maegor-are both far too young to assume a true and proper rule, and, again like Prince Maegor, bear the stain of a father with a mind to unruly for the Iron Throne as, alas, these Seven Kingdoms have discovered to their sorrow."

_Finally_. Cersei prepared to rise only to feel her father's grip tighten on her arm. "And yet, Grand Maester," said Stannis, "I was unaware that there had been a Grand Council on this matter."

"Your Grace," said Pycelle with a merry laugh, "what is this present war but a Grand Council by the sword?" He turned around regarding the various lords assembled. "Aerys by breaking the oaths of his own coronation, forced action on the Lords Paramount. Had the ways of peace been open, I am certain they would have taken-but Aerys closed them off as well, and thus created this present tumult which stands for a Grand Council just as a trial by combat stands for a trial by other means." He turned once again to Stannis and smiled a pleasant and grandfatherly smile. "And so, Your Grace, fear not to accept those honors and titles that are your lawful due. You, and no other, are our king."

Stannis nodded at this, though it seemed to Cersei his frown had not lightened in the least, and in fact had grown quite severe at several points in Pycelle's recitation. "Very well. This being so, I, Stannis Baratheon, do formally proclaim myself King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Ruler of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm, in the name of the old gods and the new."

"Long may you reign," came a solitary voice from his followers. And then, slowly, gradually, applause began and then cheers. Stannis' glanced at the noisy crowd with an undeniable sense of unease, raising his hand. He said something that Cersei couldn't make out over the noise, and then an "Enough" that she could. It seemed to Cersei the plaudits quieted far faster than they'd risen. Stannis turned to Tywin. "Rise, Lord Tywin, and know I accept your fealty, and your daughter's hand in equal measure."

"I thank Your Grace for this immeasurable honor," stated Tywin. Cersei took to her feet with great relief. Still, even if it was good to finally get the ache out, all that had been disquieting. Stannis' words were courtly, but his voice was tight and clipped, and the man himself... _He is no Rhaegar_, she thought. _He is not even a Robert_.

Stannis gave a formal, and exceedingly stiff bow. "Lord Buckler offers us the use of Bronzegate for the ceremony and the feast. Shall we enter together, Lord Tywin?"

"Once again, Your Grace honors me," said her father flatly. For a moment, Cersei felt a strange wish to run from all this, run far away, but her father's hand remained on her arm, and she was pulled quietly and firmly to the castle.


	9. Eddard (II)

**EDDARD**

Ned sat in the hall of Bronzegate as Lord Buckler's musicians played for the wedding feast._ The Rains of Castamere_, he thought as he recognized the tune. _A bit grim for a wedding feast, but then this is rather grim for a wedding..._ Stannis-_King_ Stannis-sat at the head of the table, his eyes fixed on the company. He barely touched the food set before him, and if his wineglass had ever been refilled during the course of the meal, Eddard hadn't seen it. The appetite of Stannis' young queen seemed just as slight, though Ned was willing to put that down to nerves._ My lady wife ate just as little at our wedding, after all._.. He recalled that he had not seen Catelyn for many months._ She has given me a son_, he thought, _and I barely know her_.

As 'The Rains of Castamere' ended and 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' began, William Dustin grabbed a large turkey leg off of Theo Wull's plate. "Hey!" snapped Theo.

"I claim this by right of my hunger," said William with a smile. "My hand has acted in place of a Grand Council."

Ethan Glover and Martyn Cassel both snickered at that, and even Wull burst into a smile. "Like I'd want anything you got your grubby mitts on," Theo muttered.

"That's not what sweet young Jeyne tells me," laughed William.

"Fuck you," muttered Theo.

"Indeed she has," said William, taking a great bite of his turkey leg.

As Mark Rysell shook his head, Ethan Glover looked at the King and Queen. "Suppose there'll be a bedding?"

"Hmm, I hope so," said William, leering at Cersei. "I've a wager with young Lord Lolliston on whether the Queen's tits are as fine as the Lady of Winterfell's."

Martyn glanced at his friend. "Who'd you wager on?"

"That you could ask that of me!" declared William, in mock offense. He placed a hand on Ned's shoulder. "Such is my friendship with you, sweet Ned, that I have wagered a silver stag on your wife's breasts being finer than our new Queen's." William leaned back and stroked his chin. "Which does suggest a rather surprising lack of loyalty on young Meryn's part. Hoster Tully would do well to keep his eye on that one..."

Theo Wull gave a snort. "I think your wager will remain a thing of air and words, Dustin. Oh, the Queen's a pretty morsel, I'll grant you, but can you see any maid here wishing to get the clothes off of that." He nodded at Stannis, then shook his head. "Their little hands'll freeze, like as not."

Ned frowned as his friends shared a chuckle, feeling a well of pity for the young King and Queen. _Look at him. He sits there in Robert's place, and he knows it. And her-married to a man she doesn't know, who doesn't know her, all for the sake of her father's ambitions_... His eyes darted to Tywin, sitting at his own table surrounded by his lords and bannermen. Grand Maester Pycelle sat next to him, oddly enough, sipping a small glass of wine. The pair seemed to be talking and yet through it all, the Lord of Casterly Rock's eyes remained fixed on his daughter and his new goodson. _Is that the face of a man who's gotten his life's great design, or a man who's been forced to sup on dust and ashes? I cannot tell..._

"Ned," came the familiar voice of Howland Reed.

Eddard turned to see the little cranogman standing at his shoulder. "How... goes matters, Howland?" he asked quietly.

Howland glanced around the hall. "I have been asking... and listening," he whispered. "Men often overlook a small man near them, when they talk. And I have heard nothing of the Lady Lyanna."

Eddard winced. He'd hoped some rumor of his sister would have at least surfaced, but still nothing. Perhaps he was being naïve-after all, Gregor Clegane, a man who he would have sworn could hide nowhere, remained unfound after all these long weeks. One highborn lady could doubtless do just as well-perhaps even better. _Assuming she still lives_.

"Well... keep looking, and listening..." muttered Ned. "I'm certain..."

"Ned..." Howland paused, as if considering the best way to put this. "I am not finished. I have heard nothing of the Lady Lyanna... but the Maester... the maester had a raven from Highgarden. Ser Oswell Whent and Arthur Dayne have appeared there, with the White Bull." He took a deep breath. "They came there to bend the knee to Prince Viserys."


	10. The She Wolf (II)

**THE SHE WOLF**

Lyanna watched on the ship's deck as the great tower of Oldtown faded into the distance. She raised up little Rhaegar. _There it goes, little one. There it goes for who knows how long. Home._ If her son cared that he was leaving Westeros, possibly forever, he did not show it, instead gurgling merrily.

He does not know. _He's a babe-this is all one to him. He has no understanding to make him sorrow-no memories to make him weep_. She envied him that. For her, she could not stop remembering. When the Lord Commander told her what the Kingsguard had decided she had wept and pleaded. 'Let me go home, sers-or if not that, let me find some nice spot of land where me and my son can live in quiet and peace. I care not for titles and honors. Let his little uncle Viserys have all of that. Indeed, who cares what you call him. If not 'Targaryen', let his name be 'Snow', or 'Waters' or even 'Sand'-he will be my dear son all the same, the memory of his beloved father, and I shall raise him to honor that memory in loyalty, not treachery.'

Ser Arthur Dayne had looked at her with sympathetic eyes at that, and even Oswell Whent had seemed abashed, but Lord Commander Hightower had regarded her sternly. 'Lady, you speak many names but the one that all will say, and that one is 'Blackfyre'.' And with that he had sent her on her way.

She shook her head as she held little Rhaegar to her. She should not let the White Bull turn into an ogre in her mind-he and his sworn brothers had given her funds-Arthur Dayne had even gotten her passage on this ship before going to join the others at Highgarden, and given her a small token, of a dragon rampant, embossed in gold. 'There is a house in Braavos, kept by the Crown for state visits. Show this to the people there-they will take care of the rest.' That was a kindness.

Indeed, all this was a kindness. There would be no place for her among the loyalists, not with a son who muddied the succession and offended Dorne. She'd heard that Prince Oberyn Martell, the Red Viper was coming to the Reach with troops-that was a man, a dangerous man, who would have no love for her or her little son. Of the rebels-well, her brother would receive her kindly, she knew that, but Lord Tywin Lannister had wed his daughter to Stannis Baratheon and... _A king slain, and a prince and princess all but babes, and poor Elia Martell..._ Lyanna bit her lip._ The Lannisters truly are as ravening as lions_.

She looked at her son, and wept. If only they had known! Then she and Rhaegar would have done their duties, gone their separate ways, lived their lives. But they'd been swept up in a sweet madness of love and prophecy and grand futures, but love-love most of all. She thought back to the Tower of Joy. _We thought we could make a world for us, just we two._ Well, they had in the end for a short time, but the price of that world was cruel and bloody. _Father... Brandon... poor Robert... the king... Elia... the prince and princess... a hundred hundred fine brave men whose names I used to honor... a thousand thousand fine men whose names I will never know... and Rhaegar... Rhaegar... Rhaegar... Rhaegar with his sad eyes and his handsome face, Rhaegar dead on the Trident, Rhaegar dead and gone forever_...

"Is all all right, miss?"

Lyanna turned to see a tall Summer Islander standing near her. "No... no...," she sniffled. "I... it is the war. I... much of my family died in it."

The man shook his head in sympathy. "That is war, in your lands" he said softly. "Bloody and terrible. It makes children orphans and women widows, and after words the folk of renown they meet and sit together, and sing their songs and suddenly all that has become grand. We in the Summer Islands... we used to be the same, until we saw that when we bled each other, only the slaver's profited..." He smiled at her son. "Is that pretty babe yours, miss?"

Lyanna nodded quietly. "His father... my husband is dead." She shut her eyes. "Killed in battle." She paused, considering what to say. "He was... a harper."


	11. Davos

**DAVOS**

"Oh, six maids there were in a spring-fed pool..." sang Ser Peter Plumm drunkenly, as his fellow Lannister men tapped the tune out on the tables. Plumm began to merrily, and unsteadily, dance along with the tune.

_Look at them. You'd think they were nothing more than a bunch of drunken sailors, if not for their finery. And even then... some of the sailors I know dress just as well..._ Ser Davos Seaworth turned away, feeling acutely embarrassed. Somehow, it felt wrong for him to be here among so many old houses, a member of their revels. _All I did was deliver some onions_... The ends of the fingers of his left hand throbbed, still sore from where the King had chopped them. At moments like this, he wondered if he had made the proper choice-and not because of his fingertips.

He shook his head. _My sons will stand higher than I ever will. And if I must feel like a pauper among princes to let them-it is worth it_. Davos felt a sudden tugging at his sleeve. Stannis' newly-made squire, young Balon Swann stood at his side. "His Grace wishes to see you," said the young man quietly.

Davos nodded awkwardly, and rose from his seat, following Balon towards the king. They passed briefly by Lord Tywin who was talking to Grand Maester Pycelle-or rather, listening to the Grand Maester talk. "-worry overmuch," stated Pycelle, sagely stroking his grey beard. "Highgarden is grasping at straws. Why-I myself am being threatened with a Grand Conclave..." It seemed to Davos that Pycelle was talking a bit loud, and he wondered if the Grand Maester was more in his cups than he appeared. The Lord Tywin seemed to glance at Ser Davos as he passed, and despite himself the ex-smuggler felt a chill. _There's another man who'd rather I was not here_... It struck Davos that it seemed strange, and slightly ominous that the Lord of Casterly Rock was seated so far from the king. _Then again, I don't know if I'd want him too near me if he was my goodfather_. His hand went to his luck despite himself.

Stannis looked drawn and tired when Davos reached him, and perhaps his eyes mistook him, but Queen Cersei didn't look much better. "Ser Seaworth," said the King, with something that looked not unlike a smile.

Davos managed a rather stiff bow. "Your Grace wished to see me?"

"For two reasons," said Stannis. "Firstly, to introduce you to my wife." Cersei Lannister regarded the man, her eyes clouding with puzzlement and what Davos couldn't help but suspect was distaste. "This is Ser Davos Seaworth of Cape Wrath. He saved my life, and the lives of many other fine men."

Davos shifted uncomfortably. "I brought some onions, Your Grace. Nothing more."

"Through Paxter Redwyne's fleet," stated Stannis. "It was bravely done."

The Queen looked at him with growing comprehension. "The knight of the black ship..." she stated.

Davos glanced away. "For most, Your Grace, I'm the knight of the onion..."

"It is the black ship that I have need of, Davos," said Stannis. "I offered Redwyne a peaceful settlement, if he would bend the knee and put his ships in my service." That faint smile had vanished and become a darker frown than usual. "He has done... quite the opposite."

"I've... heard something of that manner," muttered Davos. Lord Redwyne's taking the remaining Targaryens to Highgarden had been the talk of Stannis' retinue all the way to Bronzegate-news had even trickled down to him.

"I need a fleet," said the King. "A fleet and the men to sail it. Honest men, if they can be found. It occurred to me you might know such men."

Davos bit his lip. "The men I know, Your Grace, are honest-up to a point. A point and no further."

Stannis nodded. "I suspected as much. And such men will have to serve-for now. Wedding feast or no, Ser Seaworth-I am fighting a war. And I mean to win it."


	12. Cersei (II)

**CERSEI**

The wine they'd served her was thin and watery, and the food poor and tasteless. _Such poor hospitality to their King and Queen_, thought Cersei. _If House Buckler imagines they'll gain my favor with this farce, they're fools_. She'd barely touched both and now her stomach felt unsettled. Also, the room was dimly lit by flickering, smoky torches, so her eyes were tight and strained. _As miserable as the rest of this sorry thing_, she thought as she rubbed them.

She had always thought her wedding would be something grand, that she and the Prince would be wed in Baleor's Great Sept by the High Septon himself in all his finery, surrounded by an admiring throng. Instead the wedding had been held in the sept of a minor castle, presided over a little old man clad in a simple wool robe, with only a bunch of drunken louts to see it. She felt robbed, and not of a possession, but of something she had always felt she carried deep within her, something no one could take away. Oh, there had been moments of magic, such as how just before the ceremony her father had cloaked her in the colors of House Lannister and whispered "Your mother wore this on our wedding," but they had been short and invariably followed by disappointment._ I wore that cloak for a little while, and then the King took it off and put me in that worn old thing of black and gold_... She shut her eyes, and tried to remember what her mother's cloak had felt like, but what would keep coming back to her mind was her mother hugging her in the gardens of Casterly Rock. _But that was all a long, long time ago_...

"My lady," came the voice of the king. Her husband. Cersei opened her eyes and saw that he had risen from his seat and was offering her his hand. "My lady," said Stannis softly-or as softly as he could manage, at least. "My lady, will you grant me this dance?" Cersei stared at it, listening to the music playing. _'Two Hearts That Beat As One',_ she realized, and recalled Stannis whispering something to young Balon Swann a little earlier. She managed a nod, took Stannis' hand and rose from her seat, walking with him to the center of the floor. _His hand is trembling_, she thought to herself. Looking round she saw all eyes were on them. Stannis turned and bowed to her. And then they began to dance.

The King's motions were stiff and awkward, and he stepped on her feet several times. Each time, Cersei heard a titter of laughter ring through the hall-once, she thought she saw her father glaring after such an outburst. She wondered if he still felt he'd chosen wisely in this. When she looked into her husband's face, she saw he was as miserable about this as she was. _I wonder why he even bothered_, she thought. _He is the King, after all_.

As the song ended, one of Stannis' arms looped around her legs. With a sudden motion, he had lifted her up off the ground, and cradled her close to his chest. _Well_, thought Cersei, as she dangled there awkwardly, _he is strong, I'll grant him that_. As her hand pressed to his chest, she felt his heart beating like a smith's hammer. "My lords and ladies-honored sers," Stannis stated in a strained and hesitant voice, "I feel it is time for my wife and I to retire for the evening."

There were numerous hoots and catcalls to this, as the musicians began to play 'Oh Lay My Sweet Lass Down in the Grass' and one man even shouted out "Show us her tits!" Cersei glared out at the crowd. _If I ever learn who said that_..., she thought to herself, but then shut her eyes. If she ever learnt, she would do nothing, because there would be nothing that she could do. And so she listened to the cries and shouts as her husband carried her away from the chamber, and up the stairs. Eventually, they reached the bedchamber that had been set aside for them, by which time the noise from the revels down below had faded into a dull hum. Stannis deposited her on the bed, and then shut the door.

"My... apologies," said the King quietly. "I... had little desire for a bedding, and... little taste for the feast. I am sorry if I cut short your enjoyment of this night."

Cersei took a deep breath. "You cannot cut short something that doesn't exist, Your Grace." She sat up and began to fiddle with her dress. _The stupid maids tied it all wrong,_ she thought, biting her lip in frustration. _It won't come loose_.

Stannis sat down on the bed, and looked at her with his dark blue eyes. "My lady... I... I know I am... not what you expected for a husband. Or what the realm expected for a king. Robert was the one born to rule, and to marry well, the one with a gift for making... people love him." He shook his head. "I never wanted all this. But I will swear to you that I shall do my duty by you."

_Why is he telling me this?_ thought Cersei, as she managed to get her dress untied. "I cannot help but be offended, Your Grace," she said softly, "that you apparently do not want to be married to me."

"That is not what I meant," said Stannis, shifting awkwardly. "You are... you are very fair..."

_If the room were brighter, I wouldn't be surprised to see you blushing like a boy, **Your Grace**_. She couldn't help but think of Jaime, so much bolder than this strange man she was now tied to. _If he were here right now, he would not be talking to me like this_. She smiled at that happy thought, and then turned to the business at hand. "Your Grace," she said, as her dress fell free, "you'll find you're not the only one here who can do their duty. Now come to bed."


	13. The Foul-Smelling Flower (II)

**THE FOUL-SMELLING FLOWER**

There was a resounding crack as Ser Ulwyck Uller of Hellholt and Ser Dezial Dalt of Lemonwood met on the tourney field, their lances breaking on each others' shield. A great cry rose from the commons at this display of martial prowess, while young Viserys clapped his hands and cheered enthusiastically. _King Viserys_, thought Garth Tyrell. _I must think of him as king_.

"A fine sport, no?" said Prince Oberyn Martell, glancing at the seneschal.

"I am the wrong man to ask," stated Garth quietly. "Never much skill or time for tourneys. Can't even ride a horse these days, I'm afraid." He patted his belly. "I blame my taste for all that fine Dornish food that comes up from the Marches."

Martell smiled, and sipped his wine. "Well, at least I can say that you have fine taste in food." The Prince turned to Viserys. "What think you of this, Your Grace?"

"It's wonderful!" said the little king, eyes glued to the match. He glanced at his protector Ser Oswell Whent. "Look-look! They're going again!"

"Indeed, Your Grace," muttered the Kingsguard member softly.

Prince Oberyn smiled at the Ser Oswell. "So, Ser Whent, who do you favor for the victory?"

"It's hard to tell," said Ser Whent. "Ser Dezial has a firmer seat, methinks, but Ser Ulwyck wields a fiercer lance."

Oberyn gave a deft nod. "Indeed. Well put, Ser." He took a long swallow of his wine. "I think it will be Uller myself. The young knight of Lemonwood has much potential, but he is still a boy. Ser Ulwyck... is a man."

A moment later the Prince's words were proven when Ser Dezial was toppled from his steed, landing with a thud on the ground. The young knight attempted to rise, but then fell back and lay still. As the wardens declared Ser Uller's victory, and his squires carried Ser Dezial to the maesters, the Dornish knight saluted the young king. "For the honor of King Viserys!" declared Uller.

Viserys applauded and laughed. "Oh, I like him! I like him! May I put him on the Kingsguard?" Garth couldn't help but think of King Aenys, feasting and feteing as the realm his father conquered fell apart around him. _Unfair, Garth, unfair. He is a boy, and this is all little more than a merry game to him, dead father or no_.

"If he continues to fight as he has, Your Grace, then yes." Prince Oberyn smiled. "I must state that he would be an excellent choice. Ulwyck _burns_ to avenge your slain father."

Garth frowned to himself. They misgave him, all these fiery young followers that had come with the Red Viper-and as opposed to his goodnephew Ser Jon Fossoway, who'd been ranting about it to him the other night, it was not because they were Dornishmen. _Though I will not deny that adds another wrinkle. How many fights have their been in the Reach's taverns since they came? More than through the entire war so far, that I know for a fact..._ But no-at heart Garth mistrusted them because it seemed that Prince Oberyn had stripped Dorne of its wildest youngest knights and come to fight a personal mission of vengeance. _We cannot win this war. He must know this. All we can do is try not to lose too badly, so that our Houses can reach an honorable settlement. But he brings these mad young men here-men who think a war can be won with piss and vinegar, and nothing else._..

Another cheer came from the crowd, as Ser Garth "Greysteel" Hightower took to the field against Ser Myles Manwoody. _But there's the problem_, thought Garth Tyrell. T_he Hightowers, the Ashfords, the Caswells, the Peakes-half the Houses in Highgarden seem inflicted with the same madness. My nephew lost a fair portion of the Reach's strength outside of Storm's End, and yet people seem to think we'll win_. _Because our cause is just, or some such nonsense._ The crowd went wild as Greysteel easily knocked Ser Myles from his horse. _Dreams of honor and glory. They make men mad_.

"It is a pity your goodsister cannot be here," stated Prince Oberyn.

"I fear the Lady Olenna is... ill-disposed at the moment," noted Garth Tyrell. He smiled to himself, as he recalled the Queen of Thorns words on the subject. "Tell them the crack of lances give me headaches," she'd said, something he'd decided not to share. He glanced down to the field, where Lord Commander Hightower continued to watch the match in his gleaming white armor. Garth wondered if he was proud to see his grandnephew's skill. _Likely, but I doubt he'll show it. Nor show Greysteel any favor that he does not earn. An honorable man. Who will get many people killed, if he has his way_.


	14. The Old Falcon (III)

**THE OLD FALCON**

"...And Lord Estermont sends his regrets," stated Lord Whent quietly, "but the storm on the Narrow Sea badly damaged the isle's ships. He still is not able to reach us."

Jon Arryn rubbed his temples. "It has been months since that storm. And he cannot find a single ship and come to King's Landing?"

Lord Whent shrugged. "Not a secure one, I'm afraid." Once again, Jon realized that he missed Hoster Tully. His brother Brynden had gone to Tumbleton to secure it from the Dragon supporters, three weeks ago. Lord Walter Whent had arrived from the Riverlands shortly thereafter. Hoster's goodbrother had buried two sons in what men were starting to call the War of the Dragons and the Stags. While no one doubted Lord Whent's commitment, there were few who'd call him an overly decisive man.

"If he were not the King's grandfather," said Kevan, "I'd think he was trying very hard to avoid committing to the Stag's cause..."

"He's lost more kin than Robert in this," stated Jon. Privately, he wondered. Lord Baelor Estermont had never been one of the most daring of lords, grand name aside, and if Robert could be believed, Stannis was not the favorite among his grandchildren. The man had children, grandchildren and even great-grandchildren of his own line to consider, and as Robert used to say, his sigil being a turtle was no mistake.

"That still does not excuse his tardiness," stated Tywin Lannister, as he strode into the room, Grand Maester Pycelle tottering in after him. "In the time that Estermont has written his latest complaining message, His Grace's pet smuggler has already managed to produce six ships from across the Narrow Sea. With more on the way." Tywin confidently took his seat at the table. "If Lord Estermont does not watch himself, he will become the first man to lose a seat at the Small Council before he ever took it."

"Third, my lord," said Grand Maester Pycelle. "The first would be Lord Stokeworth in the reign of Daeron II. He was sent to be the new Master of Coins, but he had a brother who fought under the Black Dragon, so Bloodraven persuaded the council to choose someone a little more steady. The second..."

"Is irrelevant to our present discussion," said Tywin, glaring at the Grand Maester. He dropped a sealed envelope upon the table. "In here are King Stannis' present appointments to the Small Council." Jon Arryn carefully picked up the envelope. "They are, I believe, Lord Estermont to Master of Ships, Lord Whent to Master of Coins, Lord Arryn to Master of Laws, and myself as Hand to the King."

Arryn nodded to himself as he read Stannis' brusque missive._ When Robert told me how stiff his younger brother was, I always thought he exaggerated_. Tywin's Handship had been one of the conditions to his giving the Stags control of King's Landing, along with the marriage of his daughter to Stannis. While the King had consented, the rather curt tone of his letter made it clear he didn't like it. _Still, who is happy with it aside from the Lannisters?_ thought Arryn, as he glanced at the scowling form of the Lord of Casterly Rock. _And perhaps not even them_...

Ser Kevan regarded his brother with a smile. "How is dear little Cersei?" he asked.

"As well as can be expected," replied Tywin curtly. "Now, Ser Kevan, your letter said you have a report from Silverhill?"

Jon Arryn frowned as Ser Kevan gave a nod._ So he has been writing to his brother of our meetings-and the Seven knows what else-this entire time_... "Ser Stafford has received a raven from Lord Alester Florent. He is Lord Tarly's goodfather, and his brother Ser Axell is serving with him. He believes that he may be able to get Lord Tarly to consider terms. Further, his brother believes he might be able to engineer the surrender of Goldengrove."

Jon Arryn idly tapped the table._ A great victory, if they can get it_. Though its Lord remained in the custody of the Stags, Goldengrove had remained in the Reach's hands, with Lord Beesbury using it as a base as he hemmed in the Lannister troops to the north. _This war has not been kind to the glory of Westerland arms, has it?_ thought Jon. _Even if this succeeds, what will men say but the men of the Rock only win battles through betrayal?_

"Lord Arryn," said Tywin suddenly. "His Grace will be arriving in King's Landing shortly for his blessing and anointment. He wishes to have a secure city when he enters. As Master of Laws, this will be your duty."

"I believe I can manage it, Lord Hand," said Arryn quietly. "I have so far, after all. Why, men even smile when they see warriors of the Vale go past." _Because they aren't Lannisters_, he thought to himself.


	15. The Butcher's Son

**THE BUTCHER'S SON**

Morros' feet dug into his sides as the boy watched the King and Queen climb the stairs of Baelor's Great Sept from the vantage point of his father's shoulders. Janos Slynt winced slightly, then smiled to himself and reached up to pat his boy on the head._ Not every day a boy gets to see history, after all_.

"She's pretty!" whispered Morros.

Janos nodded, but couldn't help but wonder what his father would say about that. He could almost hear Olyvar Slynt in his mind. _'Fair enough, fair enough, but not a candle on dear Queen Rhaella. Such grace, such charm, such fine manners...'_ Janos sighed to himself._ And then he would tell of the time she thanked him for a fine cut of lamb he'd served her. 'Now-that is true royalty!'_

Of course, Olyvar wouldn't tell such tales any longer. His father had never been overly fond of the Hand-_'Thinks he's better than all others who walk this great green earth, that one does'_-but somehow Janos didn't think even Olyvar would imagine he'd be cut down by a Lannister soldier one night. _Dark times. Dark times. But... perhaps they're over now, eh?_

The High Septon continued to drone on, demonstrating his aptly-earned nickname of 'the longwinded one'. Janos wondered if King Stannis was tired of kneeling before the man. _He's scowling-but then, he's been scowling since the ceremony began_. Janos frowned. It felt... wrong, not having a Targaryen for a king. They-they were the blood of the Dragon, the descendants of lost Valyria, more than men-almost gods. Even mad old Aerys had had a bit of that luster to him. Stannis Baratheon was... just a man. An impressive looking man, yes, but still a man. It was hard to believe he could sit on the Iron Throne.

_And maybe he won't. Little Viserys is still out there. They say the Dragons have won every battle since Storm's End_. Though Janos had to admit, most of them didn't sound like particularly impressive battles.

The High Septon finally stopped talking and the King and Queen rose. The people applauded. As he looked at Queen Cersei, Janos wondered if she knew what her father had done here. All the people who'd died... _They cleaved his head in. For no real reason at all. Him, who'd served their own master the finest meat in King's Landing_. Janos wondered if he should hurry back to the shop. Not that he could keep running it. He didn't have the hands. Oh, they were strong enough, but... his father had it. The skill. Olyvar Slynt liked to boast he could kill a steer in a blow, then cut its meat so fine you could see through the slices. Janos didn't have that. _They call a man who hacks away at things a butcher. Well, yeah, they can be. If they're shit at it._ Janos didn't want to be a shit butcher, who got by selling scraps to the pot shops. _I'll sell the shop. Maybe... maybe buy a commission in the gold cloaks. They're hiring. They almost always are. I need money. Regular money. Got a son, a daughter, and a babe on the way. It don't come free. Like grandpa said-every man must serve..._

"Papa-everyone's leaving!" said Morros.

Janos turned away. "You want to walk the way home?" he asked.

"Yes, yes," said Morros. "I'm a big boy! I can walk!"

Janos chuckled to himself, and then knelt down. Morros slipped off with a merry squeal, then took his father's hand as they prepared to head back. _And that's what I serve. Him. He won't go without if I can help it. My father didn't fail me-and I won't fail him._

"The new king is tall! Much taller than the last one!" said Morros. "Does that mean he'll rule longer?"

"If the Seven will it, Morros," answered Janos Slynt with a smile. "If the Seven will it."


	16. Eddard (III)

**EDDARD**

His Grace Stannis Baratheon sat upon the Iron Throne clad in the black and gold of his house, with an antlered crown upon his head, his expression wary and-it had to be admitted-regal. Whatever doubts one might have about suitability tended to vanish-or at least, quiet-when you saw the man sitting on that chair made of swords._ I suppose Aegon the Conqueror built it for that reason_, thought Eddard and shuddered slightly. Even if he came as an ally, the throne room of the Red Keep was not a comfortable place, with its shadows, and the skulls of dragons covering the walls. The fact that his father and elder brother had died horrifically here only added to his discomfort.

Ned shook his head, as court was called into session. _That is done and past. The king who did it is dead, and a new king-**this** king-sits in his place_.

Stannis leaned forward as the herald stopped talking. "There are many great matters to attend to, in this, my first court. It is my hope that in it, I will show the Seven Kingdoms what sort of king they have." He looked over the room. "Let Ser Jaime Lannister of the Kingsguard come forward."

Eddard searched the crowd for the man many were already calling the Kingslayer. He stood amongst the Lannisters-his father the Hand, his uncles Kevan and Gerion, and most worryingly, his sister the Queen. Thoughts of plots and cliques entered Ned's head, and then vanished when he saw her eyes focused nervously on her twin. _She wishes to be with her brother now, and who can blame her?_ For a second, Lyanna's face flashed in his mind, and he wondered where his sister was.

Jaime Lannister walked forward with a heavy tread, and knelt before the throne-Eddard was surprised how haggard he looked. It was almost enough to make him pity the man, as long as he didn't think of what he'd done. "Ser Jaime Lannister," said Stannis, "you killed the king you were sworn to protect, thus breaking your oath as a member of the Kingsguard." Jaime seemed to nod slightly at that. "I offer you this chance to take up the black, and live out the rest of your days protecting the realm as a member of the Night Watch."

"No! No! You can't!" Cersei Lannister fell to the floor, her uncles swiftly rushing to her side. "I... he... you can't! You can't!" She broke down into incoherent sobs, as Gerion patted her lightly on the back.

"Your Grace," said Jon Arryn, moving out of the crowd, "You have chosen me to be your Master of Laws, and as such I must point out the value of mercy..."

Stannis regarded Arryn stoically. "I have offered him honorable service in the Night Watch. That would be a mercy for an attempted regicide, much less a successful one." He shook his head. "Understand this, Lord Arryn-I will not have this man in my Kingsguard. He has sullied its oath, and must pay the price for that."

As Cersei sobbed and her uncles tried to comfort her, Tywin Lannister stepped forward. "Your Grace-if I may speak not as your Hand, but merely as a father," he said, his expression hard, and his voice cold. "It is hard for me to see my son sent so far from me. Remove him from the Kingsguard-yes, I can see that, but surely that is disgrace enough..."

"And it is hard for me to bring sorrow to my wife, your daughter," said Stannis, with perhaps the slightest tremble in his voice, "but so it stands. I am a King, and sometimes must do things that bring me sorrow." He stared at Tywin Lannister intently. "As for what you propose, many would argue that would be a reward, freeing him to inherit what he has forfeited by joining the Kingsguard."

Tywin stared back at him, his hard green eyes glaring into Stannis' hard blue ones. "Many might, Your Grace. Many might. It is up to you whether you heed their opinion." The pair stood there for a moment, eyes locked on each other, when a loud wail broke their concentration.

"Don't send him away!" cried Cersei. She looked at her husband appealingly. "Please-he... my brother... I... I love him..." She sniffled. "Don't send him to the Wall!" Stannis bit his lip as he looked at her, as if struggling to find the words to say.

Eddard felt sympathy well up in him, and stepped towards the Queen. "Your Grace," he said gently, "I understand your sorrow, but... to protect the realm as a member of the Night Watch is an honorable service. This we remember in the North. Your brother can free himself of the dishonor he has acquired in the service of the Iron Throne..."

If Ned had hoped to comfort the weeping woman, the angry gaze she shot him suggested he had failed, by a significant margin. Eddard shifted, aware that all eyes were now on him... when something happened to take them off.

"Your Grace," said Jaime firmly, "I accept the black." As Eddard watched, Cersei and Tywin both stared at the young knight in astonishment. Jaime shut his eyes. "What I did... I... Aerys... I had reached a point where I felt to serve him by the Kingsguard oath meant to dishonor all others I'd ever sworn, as a knight and a man." As the court murmured around him, Jaime shook his head. "I... I may have been wrong to think that. I don't know. All I know is there is a stain on my soul that I have to clean, however it got there. And so I accept your offer. And I take the black. And I thank you, and I ask you..." He opened his eyes and looked at the king pleadingly. "I ask you and every one here to pray for me, if they can. Pray for me, to the old gods and the new. So that I can find forgiveness with them, if not with men. So that I can find peace."


	17. The Old Falcon (IV)

**THE OLD FALCON**

The Queen was ushered from the chamber weeping, her uncle Gerion taking her out. "Now, now," he said softly. "Now, now, sweet Cersei, just let all the sad out..."

Jon Arryn watched the pair leave, suppressing an urge to scream the entire time. His eyes turned to King Stannis, who sat in the Iron Throne rigid as a statue. _The fool! The stubborn young fool! Does he want to throw away all we have accomplished?_ Tywin Lannister stood as rigid as the king and goodson he proclaimed to serve. _He will not forgive this,_ thought Jon_. Tywin Lannister broke with Aerys for giving Jaime the white-Seven alone know what he'll do to Stannis for giving the lad the black._

Jon sighed. He could understand the feeling that what Jaime had done was beyond the pale-in truth it was-but the Stags couldn't afford to risk their entire alliance unraveling in the middle of this war. Despite their losses, the Reach and Dorne remained fresher than any of their rivals-save the Westerlands. And the Reach could field an army larger than most of the allies-again, save the Westerlands. Tywin Lannister's good feeling was imperative for the Stags to succeed-and Stannis had just forfeited that.

As the court calmed, the King raised his voice again. "Let Ser Barristan Selmy come forward." Ser Selmy came out of the crowd, still heavily bandaged from the wounds he'd received on the Trident. "Ser Barristan, I wish you to go to your brothers of the Kingsguard in Highgarden and deliver this message. There is still time for them. They are honorable men, and true, and I give them credit for it. But if they continue to play kingmakers around this young boy, I will not be able to forgive them. To have served Aerys was one thing-to have crowned Viserys was another. If they bend the knee, and acknowledge me as rightful sovereign of these Seven Kingdoms, then they may resume their rightful places on my Kingsguard. If they continue to bear arms against me, I will count them traitors, and deal with them as such."

There was an audible gasp in the court. Jon Arryn winced, and cursed Stannis' stubborn pride_. Heavens help the lad, what does he think he's doing? Does he think he can sully the honor of men like the White Bull and the Sword of Morning? It will be him the folk will judge for this, not them!_

Ser Barristan, to his credit, accepted this charge with an easy grace. "Very well. And what of myself?"

"I give you the same choice," said Stannis simply. "You may serve me, or you may pledge your sword to Viserys and treachery. It is entirely up to you, Ser."

Barristan nodded, and then turned to leave. "Now... Ser Cortnay Penrose. Ser Mark Rysell. Ser Brynden Tully. Step forth." Jon Arryn watched as the three men knelt before the throne and spoke their oaths._ Well-good solid choices, men of some note, and some skill,_ he thought,_ though not telling Tywin of this-it's another slap in the face_. As the oath ended, young Balon Swann handed them each a white cloak, and three men rose and took their places around the Iron Throne. "And now... Jon Arryn. Step forward."

Jon Arryn blinked. This was... unexpected. Straightening himself, he walked forward. "Your Grace," he said.

"You served me well as Master of Laws, and my brother well before then as an ally," said Stannis. That would cheer me if there were more warmth in your voice, Your Grace. "But I have a greater role in mind for you. In the past, the Targaryens gave a seat on their Small Council to a keeper of spies, a master of whispers. This I will not do-it was an unseemly custom, and it brought bad men into power. In its place, I revive an older title. Jon Arryn, I appoint you Master of the Great Seal, as the Storm Kings did before the Conquest. To you I grant sovereignty over my chancelleries and my emissaries. To you I grant the power to speak for me to the nations across the Narrow Sea."

Jon stared a moment in dull shock. "Your Grace... you do me... great honor..." _Another slap in Tywin Lannister's face! This... this cuts the Hand in twain!_ He wondered if he dare refuse. One look at Stannis' face, and he knew he did not. "...And I shall try to live up to it."

Stannis nodded. "Excellent. Take up the Great Seal." Balon Swann handed him it to him, a large medal depicting a crowned stag. _He will need a man of sense about him, a man who will cut through the feuds he seems determined to start,_ Jon thought as he stepped back. Stannis looked over the crowd. "Now-bring forth the Spider. Bring forth Varys, the spy."

There was an uncomfortable silence for a moment. And then a little old man politely stepped forward. "Well... Your Grace... I... I tried to tell you... earlier... Lo... Varys... he wasn't in his cell, Your Grace."

Stannis regarded the man. "What?"

The old man gulped. "It... it was empty. Your Grace. The Spider's gone."


	18. The Knight of Hounds

**THE KNIGHT OF HOUNDS**

This was a bad plan. Ser Tytos Clegane knew that. _Gods help me, you can smell treachery on the wind if you have the nose for it_. He looked up ahead, at Ser Stafford Lannister, and Ser Emmon Frey, and Ser Harys Swyft, the... _bold_ leaders of this force, and shook his head. Knights, the same as him, but not all knights were equal. Ser Clegane had learned that through hard experience. They had no nose for it. They were laughing and joking with each other, minds already flush with an easy victory they counted as won before it even existed. They would not listen to him. They would not heed him. If he stepped forward to warn them once again, they would only laugh.

He spurred his horse forward. A knight-a _true_ knight-does his duty, he reminded himself, no matter how onerous and unrewarding he may find it.

Clegane rode unsteadily ahead. He had little skill as a rider-he had taken to it far too late, and never managed to acquire the gift. He could still recall Lord Tytos and Reyne brothers' laughter at watching him at the hunt. 'Dear me, young Tytos, you ride like a farmer,' Reynald Reyne had said. A smile came unbidden to Clegane's face. The men who had laughed at the boy had done so with affection. Not like the men who now laughed at the man grown.

"Sers," he said softly, as he pulled up beside them. "A word if you please."

Stafford Lannister turned, and regarded Tytos with a dull hostility. "More whining, Clegane?" he snorted. "Relax, you'll get your scraps." Harys Swyft let out a loud laugh at that, as he had every time that Ser Stafford had used that joke when talking to Tytos.

"Sers, I am still uncertain about this... surrender we are going to," stated Clegane calmly_. At night. In the woods. By the Crone, you dunces, do I have to draw you a map?_ "Perhaps-just _perhaps_, mind you-it would be wise to send me and a few others ahead to scout..."

"Are you the Knight of Hounds, Clegane, or the Knight of Pups?" asked Ser Frey, eliciting another loud laugh from Ser Swyft who once again apparently found this witticism just as amusing now as he had the first time it had been used. "Frighting at nothing!"

"He wouldn't be the only one, if we sent this lummox galumphing up ahead," snorted Ser Stafford. "Ser Florent would probably flee." He peered at Ser Clegane with all the intensity that a truly stupid man absolutely convinced of his brilliance was capable of. "He's giving us Goldengrove, Clegane. Goldengrove. He's got the men there, waiting for us. All set up for us. And you think I shouldn't show him a little trust." He shook his head. "Not very knightly." Frey and Swyft shared a snicker at that. "Now-anything else you want to say?"

Tytos Clegane considered telling Stafford that he was an ass and was about to get a good many men killed in what would likely go down in Westerosi history as one of the more major military blunders, but decided it would do little good. So instead he shook his head, and rode away. Well, he cannot say I didn't warn him. Or rather, he can, but he'll be lying when he says it. Tytos sighed. Ser Stafford was a dunce of the first order, who held his post because Tywin Lannister trusted family above all. That wasn't a problem when it was a solid man like Ser Kevan Lannister, or a skilled man like Ser Tygett-but Tywin's good-brother was a fool. Oh, he'd follow orders, if they were set before him in painstaking detail, but most of the time, that was all he would do. Which made him-most of the time-close to Tywin's vision of a perfect subordinate, Clegane imagined. The problem really began on those rare occasions when Stafford got an idea. Stafford's ideas all resembled one another- they were all supposed to win Stafford a great deal of glory, they were never any good, they inevitably got men killed, and finally, when they were finished, Stafford would have a chat with Tywin, and then find himself on some duty more in line with his abilities, like supervising latrine digging. And then Lord Tywin would need a loyal subordinate for some minor task, Ser Kevan would be busy somewhere else, Ser Tygett would be in one of his periodic-and frequently rather justified-sulks, and so Ser Stafford would set forth with painstaking instructions from his goodbrother on what to do that he would follow exactly, Lord Tywin would begin to dismiss the last debacle as a fluke, and the whole merry dance would begin again...

It was a sad thing, what Lannister arms had fallen to. Clegane remembered brighter days, days when the knights of the Rock were considered as glorious as the knights of the Reach, when Roger Reyne the Red Lion had songs sung about him other than _The Rains of Castamere_, when smallfolk had loved the Lord of Casterly Rock, not feared him, and when folk said 'a Lannister pays his debts' with a smile, not a shudder.

_I'm becoming an old man_, he thought. _An old man, complaining about how everything was so much better and brighter when he was a boy_. But it had been, for him, at the very least, if not for all. He remembered the War of Ninepenny Kings. 'A promising lad', Roger Reyne had called him, and Gods, had he proved that promise then. He had thought, afterwards, that the laughter would be silenced forever, that he had at last put 'Tytos the dog boy' behind him. _The Seven scourge us for our folly and our pride,_ he thought. _They always do. That was when it all turned foul for us, and heavens help me, every one of us should have seen it coming_.

A call from up ahead brought Clegane back to the present. "Is... that you, Ser Stafford?" Tytos winced. D_amnable fool! Keep your mind where you are when you're in battle_! He looked ahead to see... a man on a horse... who sat in a very... stiff way...

"Yes, Ser Axel! It's me!" boomed out Ser Stafford. "I've brought those men here, just as you said!"

_They've tied him to his horse, you idiot!_ Tytos considered saying that, but decided against it, as it would almost certainly get him an arrow from whatever archers were hidden in the trees. Instead he shifted in his saddle and prepared to dismount. That was the one thing he could do well on a horse, and it had saved his life more times than he could count.

"Very... very good... Ser Stafford..." said Ser Axel, his voice breaking. "If... if you will wait just a moment I will..." And that was when the archers fired.

Ser Stafford had been standing very prominently in front, and been talking in his loud and booming voice, and so he managed to gather many shots himself. But there were still arrows enough for many of the men who'd followed him out into what he'd assured them was going to be a quick and simple victory. Ser Tytos listened to them sailing overhead, as he readied his sword, and prayed to the Seven that a horse or a panicked man didn't trample him where he lay. They must have been listening that night-none did.

The first part was over quickly, as such ambushes generally were, and then the men came out of the woods, with spears and swords to round up captives, and kill any men who tried to resist. Clegane heard Swyft and Frey loudly and piteously surrendering. A man came near him. Ser Tytos began, silently, to count. Another man joined the first. And then a third. He heard a whistle. "Look at that! Is that Quhorene-made, ya reckon?" The third man leaned towards him.

He took a stab to the belly as Tytos leapt to his feet. "CLEGANE! CLEGANE!" he shouted as he finished off the man's companions. _They have treated us with dishonor_, he reminded himself, _and it is right and proper to pay them with their own coin_. He began to rush towards the woods. "To me, men of the Westerlands! To me! CLEGANE! CLEGANE!" Men tried to stop his progress, but they were too slow. They almost always were when they faced him in battle, slow and amazed a man as big as he could move so fast. A glance behind showed him that there were men following him, and not men of the Reach-these were Westerland colors, the colors of fellow Lannister bannermen. I've done my duty. I've done as I should. Some of us are getting out of this folly free and alive.

Fewer men were trying to get in front of him now, likely because they saw what kept happening to the men who did. "I say, Ser!" A mounted knight rode before him, the blazon of House Crane on his shield. "Surrender at once! You've-" Clegane struck a massive blow on the man's side, and watched him topple from his saddle. The man landed with a crash, which panicked his horse. Tytos watched it gallop away, the man being dragged behind it, one foot still in the stirrup. _Not a good dismount_, he thought to himself, then chid himself for making light of the fellow's fate. _He was a man such as you are, a brave man, doing his duty_... He heard another horse snort and pivoted around.

"I YIELD, SER!" screamed the young squire on the palfrey. The boy leapt rather awkwardly off the horse and knelt on the ground. "I yield! I yield! It was Ser Crane's idea! Ser Crane! Him you just..." The boy gulped and looked up at Clegane desperately. "He said... he said a man on horseback overmatched a man on foot..."

"That depends on the two men, I find," said Tytos softly. He looked around. They were farther from the ambush site then he'd realized, but still closer than he liked. He glanced at his followers, and began to count. "Anyone need a horse?" A man in the colors of House Kenning came forward, limping somewhat. Tytos helped him on.

"What of the boy?" came a voice.

"He has yielded to me, and is my sworn prisoner," stated Clegane. He looked at the squire, a round-faced, rather harmless-looking lad. "Your name, boy?"

"Garrett Flowers, Ser," he stated. "One of the B... Bastards of Highgarden..." The boy gulped. "Ser."

Tytos heard a dissatisfied murmur from the men, and small wonder. _Not much of a ransom from this one_. "We best be moving. We've won our freedom for the moment-but keeping it may prove harder." He turned towards the trees, and began to stride forward.

"Are you going to leave him untied?" came that same very annoying voice.

"Young Garrett has yielded to me, and I trust that he will abide by his honor in this matter," said Tytos. "If he does not, then all will know him as a liar and an oathbreaker. And if the Seven should ever see fit to bring me to battle against again in such a happening, I would treat him as such." Garrett quivered so much at that, Clegane almost felt guilty.

"So you'll let him walk untied all the way back to camp?" said that same irritating person, who Tytos had at last identified.

"No, Ser Alyn Stackspear, I shall not. I shall let him walk untied all the way back to Silvershield." Ser Tytos heard the cries of surprise, and sighed. "Think of it, men. Our camp, which lies at half-strength and is under the stalwart command of young Ser Cleos Frey?" He felt the uncomfortable realization steeling over them. "If Tarly had any hand in this-and he most certainly did-than our camp is now their camp. We march to Silvershield."

They fell behind him after that. A man in the colors of House Marbrand glanced at him. "So you think we can make it there?"

Tytos nodded. "We have a fair chance. I doubt they'll be breaking themselves for a handful of men. And it's been a mild winter so far." He shrugged. "And of course, there's the horse. If it comes to that-well, they are surprisingly good eating, I find."

He thought he saw young Garrett quiver at that.


	19. Cersei (III)

**CERSEI**

The Queen stared at the blood orange before her, and frowned. She looked across the table at her husband, who continued to nervously watch her._ Some men send flowers_, she thought. _He sends me oranges for breakfast_.

"Are you... are you hungry, Cersei?" asked Stannis, quietly.

"I'm fine," she stated flatly.

"If you want, I could have them send your food back," he continued.

"I'm fine." Cersei idly fiddled with her fork, and looked at him again. She hated him. It would have been bad, what he had done to Jaime, but what he had done before then made it worse. On the trip up to King's Landing after their marriage, Stannis had been... pleasant in a shy, stiff, infinitely awkward way. It had been almost endearing, and Cersei had started to imagine that marriage to the King might prove bearable-even pleasant.

And then he'd done... _that_ to Jaime. Cersei held back a tear as she chewed her orange. _I can never forgive him that. Never_.

"They tell me it may be a while before we have oranges in King's Landing again," said Stannis. "Dorne's declared for Viserys." Her husband's always present frown seemed to deepen. "Pity."

Cersei fidgeted in her chair. "I... was unaware you were so fond of oranges."

"I'm not," said Stannis. "But I am fond of peace. Dorne held off the rest of the Seven Kingdoms by themselves for generations. With Highgarden to back them..." He scowled, and ground his teeth.

"A pity you don't have dragons, then," she said quietly.

"They didn't help the Targaryens," said her husband. "Balerion the Black Dread could not make the Dornishmen surrender. It is not a pleasant thing to know you must prove yourself more terrible than a dragon who could swallow a mounted knight whole."

_You are well on your way to that_, thought Cersei, barely suppressing a scowl. Suddenly, it occurred to her-here was the opening she needed. She forced herself to smile. "Well, my husband, it seems to me you are in need of every sword you can..."

Stannis turned his piercing dark blue eyes on her, and stared for a moment. "Cersei, my dear, you are my wife, and I... hold you in some regard. But as my wife, I ask you to treat with me as I would treat with you." He shook his head. "I am not a man given to intrigues and flattery. I am simple and direct in my speech. So if you would ask something of me... ask it. Do not imply it."

Cersei stared at him a moment, and bit her lip. "I... pardon my brother, Your Grace. Let Jaime go home."

Stannis regarded her simply. "No. I cannot."

"You... cannot?" snapped Cersei. "No, you _will_ not!" She pointed at Stannis accusingly. "You... you are the King! You can do as you like! You could pardon him in a second!"

"The man your brother killed did as he liked," said Stannis quietly. "You see where that got him." He folded his hands before him, and lay them quietly on the table. "I do not resent the fact that you love your brother, Cersei, and that you wish him well. And if it were simply a matter of your happiness, he would be free. But it is not. You do not seem to appreciate the enormity of Jaime's actions." Stannis took a deep breath. "You spoke earlier of my needing swords. Ser Brynden Tully. Ser Cortnay Penrose. Ser Mark Rysell. These are all talented warriors. The Blackfish fought with honor beside Barristan the Bold. Ser Penrose and Ser Rysell both proved themselves fighting under Robert-Ser Rysell even saved my life at Storm's End. And not one of these men would sit on my Kingsguard if your brother had remained. The Blackfish told me himself that he would not serve with the man who had dishonored the greatest oath he had ever sworn, in the vilest way imaginable." He leaned forward. "That is what your brother did, Cersei. And if my word as a king is to have any meaning, he must be punished for it."

"But... but it was _Aerys_!" said Cersei. "He... would have killed your brother! And... and Father!"

Stannis nodded. "Yes. He was a bad man, and a bad king, and I feel that as a man he deserved to die. But he was still a king, and your brother still swore an oath to protect him with his life, and serve him with his death, if it became necessary."

Cersei sniffled. _It is like... arguing with a wall..._ "You... you could just... release him... from the Kingsguard..." she said.

"And let him go on to inherit Casterly Rock," said Stannis with a nod. "And men would say of me 'There is King Stannis. He said he would rule with justice, but his wife ruled him with her charms'. And they would say of Jaime, 'There is the Kingslayer, who broke his oath, and escaped justice, because his sister is the Queen'. Tell me, Cersei, do you think your brother would enjoy being the subject of such whispers?"

Cersei stared down at her breakfast, holding back tears. _Useless. It's all been useless. He's just like Father... you cannot change his mind on anything... He tears whatever you say apart... he has already torn it apart before you even say it..._ She suddenly felt a trembling hand on her shoulder and flinched. She turned to see her husband standing over, his face miserable.

"Cersei... Cersei, this does not give me joy." He looked away from her. "I... if there is any way I... can make this up for you... I would do it. He... he is your brother. Your twin. I cannot imagine how close you two must be..."

_Thank goodness_, thought Cersei to herself. "I know, Your Grace. I... I am sorry for losing my temper. He... As you say, he is my brother, my twin... and dear to me..." Stannis had started to rather awkwardly stroke his hair, a sensation Cersei had to admit was more enjoyable than she had thought it might be. "I... if I could see him. One last time before he... goes to the Watch."

"It might not be the last time," said Stannis quietly. "They do let men come south on business for them... you might see him again, and sooner than you thought. But... yes. Yes, my dear, I will let you two meet together. If you wish."

"I do," said Cersei. She smiled to herself, pleased that something she had cobbled together at the last moment had proven so effective. _You are a clever man, my husband-but not quite as clever as you think_. She took another bite of orange, and began to plan some more. _I will show him you do not wrong the Lion_, she decided.


	20. The Butcher's Son (II)

**THE BUTCHER'S SON**

Allar Deem sipped his drink, and tried to look sagacious-a difficult feat for a man with the all the wit the Seven gave pease. "You could sell this place off, and use the money go to the Free Cities. Set up shop as a merchant there."

Janos glared at him. "Like the hells I could," he muttered. As often happened at times like this, he found himself wondering why he let Allar stay around and enjoy his food. "You have any idea what it's like there? Bastards would slit my throat the moment I started up in business..." He scowled to himself. "And that's assuming I could get enough money selling this place to do more than pay for passage."

Allar sighed. "Right, right. Just trying to help. Don't have to bite my head off." Janos rolled his eyes. Allar had been something of a hanger-on of his for years. They were both the sons of men in trade who'd lacked the talent necessary to take up the trade themselves-but while Janos at least had enough of a head for figures to help his father run the business, Allar had proven an utter disappointment to Mollaro Deem, who was often heard noting in taverns that he was pleased he had three other sons who knew how to make barrels.

"Pardon me," came an accented voice from the doorway. "Is this as it says, a place where a man from Essos may enjoy hospitality?"

Janos and Allar turned to see the fattest man they had ever seen in their lives standing in the doorway of the Slynt butcher shop, a great blonde-bearded sphere clad in fine silks. "What makes you say that?" said Allar, standing to his full height, and crossing his arms in an imposing manner. It occurred to Janos this was why he kept Allar as a friend. The man was incredibly good to have backing you in a fight.

"It is right on the sign," said the fat man, stepping confidently into the shop. A servant-a nondescript man in leathers-followed him in, silently. "In Valyrian. 'Come, friend, enjoy what I offer'."

Janos, who'd often wondered what the strange letters his grandfather had had painted on his shop's sign meant, stood up. "Well, never let it be said a Slynt's a liar," stated Janos. "Take a seat..."

"Illyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos" said the fat man, as he did just that. Janos felt a sudden wave of sympathy for that poor stool, which was now being forced to do more than it had ever done in its many long years in this shop. "Slynt? Any relation to the Slynts of Volantis?"

"Not by blood," said Janos quietly. "Janos Slynt, at your service, Magister."

Allar managed a stiff bow. "And Allar Deem."

Illyrio smiled to himself. "Janos... Allar... these are Essosi names..."

"They are not," said Allar with a scowl.

Janos nodded. "He's right. They are Westerosi names." Janos leaned forward and looked Illyrio pointedly in the eye. "Because we are Westerosi."

The magister nodded and gave a subtle smile. "Then I stand corrected." He gave a shrug. "You would not happen to have some food, would you? As it so happens, I am famished, hard as it is to believe."

"I can offer you sausage," said Janos. "And a cup of ale."

"I thank you," said Illyrio. He smiled as the food was set before him. "My apologies for imposing on your hospitality. But you, see my business in this city has been, alas, horribly protracted, from my viewpoint. I was staying on my finest ship, picking up a shipment of your golden Arbor wine, when suddenly your King said that my finest ship was now _his_ finest ship." He chuckled. "That ship, and several more. And so, now I look for shelter. But it is proving difficult, for your king has made the ships of many others his ships, and they have taken lodgings in this city before I have."

Janos rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "I have some spare rooms in my house..."

Illyrio raised an eyebrow significantly. "Indeed? Well, if I could use them, you would be amply repaid..."

"They may prove a bit humble for a Magister of Pentos," said Janos.

"I suspect I've stayed in worse, Master Slynt," answered Illyrio, with a smile.


	21. Eddard (IV)

**EDDARD**

Balon Swann guided the Lord of the North in silence to the King's Solar. Eddard considered asking after the lad's health, or the well-being of his family, but decided against it. Young Swann clearly took his duties as the King's squire seriously, and besides, his family might be a sore spot. His father had fallen back to Stonehelm after the Battle of the Bells, and remained there, "marshaling his forces" even as Mace Tyrell had stood outside Storm's End and the King-to-be ate rats. Young Balon was as much a promise of future good behavior as he was... an honored guest.

"Beware dragons! Beware!" shouted a youthful voice, its owner swiftly appearing. Young Renly Baratheon rushed around the corner, a swath of rich green cloth tied over his eyes, and a large stick in his hands. "I am Symeon Star-Eyes, come to slay you!" Eddard and Balon had to dart out of the way as the young boy dashed by. After he passed, an older man-a Maester, Ned realized by the chain-followed. "My pardons, sirs," he stated, with a slight bow, before returning to his chase. "Renly! Renly! Do be careful!"

_If something were to happen, that boy would be the next king,_ Ned thought to himself, with a slight shudder. A foolish thing to think-but then, with Robert taken from them so quickly, it was impossible not to think it. _And if I am thinking it-who else might be?,_ he considered.

He was quite glad when they reached the King's Solar, and Balon opened the door. "Lord Stark," said the King, standing behind his breakfast table. "I heard you wished to speak to me." Stannis was dressed in what Eddard was learning to see as his typical style, plainly and precisely, and even though it was early in the day, the darkish grey shadow of whiskers was already present on his chin. _If I did not know better, I'd imagine Robert had been the younger sibling_, Ned thought to himself.

"Indeed, Your Grace," began Eddard. Stannis' eyes remained fixed on him in a manner that Eddard could not help but find disconcerting; he shifted his gaze slightly to the left, and realized, with a certain mild sense of surprise, that the Queen was seated there. Cersei Lannister sat there hunched over her orange, looking ever so miserable. As his eyes lighted on her, she looked up at him, and her green eyes flashed with such intense anger at him that he returned his gaze to Stannis.

"I... I have a simple request to make of you, my king," began Eddard doing his best to keep calm. "I have but recently become Lord of the North, and I have spent all that time at war, Your Grace. I have a land that does not know me, a wife that does not know me, a son, newly-born, that does not know me..." The words were coming faster now-so fast he almost worried he'd overstep himself, but if the King were offended by anything he said, he didn't show it. "I... wish to go home, Your Grace. That my land may know me, and I it, and that I may bring order and justice there, in your name."

Stannis' face remained impassive throughout this, and when Ned was finished he turned quietly, and looked out the window. "You will wish to take your men with you, I imagine," he stated flatly.

"I... I would leave as many as you would need, Your Grace," began Ned, hesitantly, "but many of them... my lords, like myself, have business in the North that must be tended to."

"Homes and lands and wives," snapped the Queen with a surprising vehemence. "Things we here in the South have _no_ knowledge of..."

Stannis turned and raised a hand, and Cersei quieted, returning to glaring angrily at her orange. "You have my permission, Lord Stark," said the King in a quiet, cold voice. "Speak with your bannermen to see what can be left here under my command, and when you have done that, return to the North, with my blessing." The King's face remained a blank slate as he spoke, and his blue eyes continued to stare at Eddard in a manner that made Ned feel slightly uncomfortable. "I would not have it said that I kept your people fighting here in the South, while letting the North fall to ruin. Return, and bring order to your lands."

Eddard bowed. "I thank you, Your Grace."

Stannis gave the slightest of nods. "And there is one other thing. Ser Jaime Lannister is to join the Night's Watch. I wish you to take him with you, when you go."

"It would be my honor, Your Grace," said Eddard, even as he imagined he felt the Queen's glare on him.

Stannis regarded him coolly. "Robert always spoke of you with fondness," said the King. "It is my hope, Lord Stark, that I may count on your support in the days that come. This war will not be easy, will not be swift, and what follows after... will be hard." Stannis leaned forward, slightly. "I will need loyal service, in the days that follow."

"I... You may trust in me," said Eddard. "Your Grace."

Stannis nodded. "If that is all..." he noted quietly, but with a definite force.

Eddard gave a nod of his own and then turned to leave the solar. As he left, he swore that he felt their gazes on him the entire time-the hot, angry gaze of the Queen, the cold, probing gaze of the King.

But he told himself he was simply imagining this.


	22. The Black Bat in White

**THE BLACK BAT IN WHITE**

Ser Oswell Whent stood in the chamber and watched the meeting of what he had dubbed 'the Not-So-Small Council'. Young... _King_ Viserys-he had to keep reminding the boy was king-sat in his seat, listening to those around him debate and discuss. The boy's large violet eyes were alert and ready, studying his councilors eagerly. _He's bright, that much one must admit_, thought Oswell. _But then, so was his father... _ There were worrying signs from the young King, who often awoke at night and asked after his dead mother, and his deader father, even though it had been explained to him that they had passed on months ago. _ But then, he is young. When my mother died, I was convinced for months afterwards that she'd become a fish after the funeral_...

"I say we should move immediately!" declared Lord Monford Velaryon, pounding the table. The young Admiral of the Narrow Sea had demanded a seat on the Small Council when he'd arrived a few weeks ago, and since getting it, had lobbied incessantly for speedy action against the Stags. "My ships are plaguing Blackwater Bay and the Bay of Crabs even as we speak! With proper support, we can bring the war right **TO** King's Landing, and topple the Usurper!"

Paxter Redwyne gave a snort. "Your ships are a bare handful, doing little more than acts of petty piracy. And likely to get wiped out as soon as Baratheon assembles a proper fleet." The Master of Ships turned to the young King. "Your Grace, my fleet is doing all it can-" Lord Velaryon laughed at that. Paxter scowled. "-within reason. Our strength must be conserved for the present." He stared at Monford pointedly. "What superiority we have at sea is a bare thing that can be shaken with a single storm."

The Lord of Driftmark actually looked discomfited at that naked reference to the loss of most of his ships in the great storm, something Oswell rather enjoyed. Lord Monford was a proud young man, and also a hasty one, who discussed war as if he would personally lead a charge against the Red Keep, all from the safety of Highgarden. But the Velaryons were an old family, with ties to many of the Dragonstone houses. They had to be placated.

"Your Grace," said a prominent member of another of those houses, Lord Ardrian Celtigar, standing to his feet. "This seems like a good time to mention _another_ place where we are weak, our finances." As the aged lord gave a withered smile, it struck Oswell as odd that this ugly old man came from the same Valyrian stock as the King and Lord Velaryon. _But then, one finds all sorts everywhere, doesn't one?_ Ser Oswell after all, had the looks of a Whent of Whenthal, as had his dear, departed sister Minisa, and less dear, but just as departed eldest brother Symond. But his elder brother Walter had looked like a Whent of Harrenhal, so that men had mistook his wife Shalla for his sister on occasion, and their children had followed suit. Oswell resembled them not at all. _I don't even follow the same king_...

He found himself wondering how his brother and his goodsister were bearing up, after burying two sons. _ If I could send my condolences_...

Celtigar peered at Viserys in what he no doubt considered a kindly way. "Now, Your Grace, the sad fact-as I have noted in the past-is that our finances are in a bad way. Your father's treasury, overflowing with coin, lies in the hands of the Stags, and you, the lawful King of these Seven Kingdoms are without a groat to call your own. I have labored mightily to remedy this but..."

"...But Highgarden is rather uneasy with having to be taxed to the nines in addition to having to support several armies with its produce," stated Garth Tyrell from his seat. He let loose a massive belch. "Your pardon, lords," he noted, as he picked up a large leg of chicken and tore into it. "My natural gasses are in flux today," he continued, chewing noisily the entire time. A burst of flatulence followed this declaration. "Now then, Lord Celtigar, I understand your worries, but surely some reasonable compromise can be found. My dear goodsister fears that the Reach is being forced to shoulder much of the cost of this war by itself." The sentence was punctuated by another belch. "And many of our lords are... shall we say, hesitant to let you get your claws into their property?" Garth gave Ardrian a greasy grin, as he wiped his little mustache and his little greying beard clean.

Celtigar glared at the fat man. "You-must I endure the constant japes of this burping, stinking mass of flesh?"

"My goodness!" said Garth, bursting into laughter. "I must remember that one!" He shook his head. "'Mass of flesh'. Yes, yes, quite a good description of me." Picking up an oyster, he pried it open with a massive thumb, cut it free, then slurped it down. "Understand, Lord Celtigar, I understand and sympathize with your difficulties. Why as my nephew's seneschal, the times I had to come up with the money he demanded, never bothering to think of where it might come from..." Another chuckle burst from the fat man's lips. "But I must ask you to sympathize with my difficulties. Many in the Reach feel they are being unfairly burdened in this struggle. And now you ask to add another burden. You, a foreigner." Garth shook his head. "It is... troublesome..."

His brother Gormon glared at him from across the table. "Some might find Highgarden's attitude troublesome." The Dragons' Grand Maester fidgeted in his seat, playing idly with his chain.

"I'm well aware of that," stated Garth with a yawn. "But so our attitude stands, Grand Maester, and it can not be remedied by scowling at it."

_No love lost between those two brothers_, thought Oswell, watching the Grand Maester scowl at the Seneschal. Gormon was as thin and ascetic-seeming as his brother was fat and luxurious, as blunt and serious as Garth was witty and devious. It was hard for two siblings so different to get along-and Oswell gathered there was another problem between the pair. Garth had been the one originally supposed to join the Maesters, but there'd been some scandal at the Citadel and Garth the Gross had been quietly expelled. While Gormon had done well for himself there, one couldn't escape the feeling, looking at him, that he'd rather he'd been given a choice in the matter.

"Now then, my friends," said Oberyn, from his seat beside the King's. "Let us not quarrel pointlessly amongst ourselves. Seneschal Tyrell is simply doing his duty, and advising us on how things stand in the Reach. This is why he has a seat on the Small Council."

There was a sound of footsteps outside the chamber, and then the doors opened. The White Bull entered, followed by the Hand. Oberyn rose to his feet. "Lord Commander," he said, sibilantly. "Lord Tarly. It is good you were able to make it. I understand that you have good news from the front."

Randyll Tarly nodded, regarding the assembled Small Council with a hard eye. "The Westerlands defenses are in chaos," he said quietly. "The way to the Rock is open to us. And with it, the way to victory."


	23. Gerion

**GERION**

The wine he was drinking was a trifle thin, watered down more than he liked, and rather sour to boot. Gerion considered calling for a bit of honey, at the very least, to sweeten it, but decided against it. He doubted that the servants would hear him, over the sounds of Tywin's present venting of his wrath.

"Does he imagine that he may heap coals upon me and that I will simply... _take it_?," declared Tywin in a slow fury, hand slapping hard on the table.

Besides, Gerion didn't imagine there'd be any honey.

"He is a young man, Tywin," said Kevan, his voice slightly strained. "A young man, just come into power. A certain... heedlessness of nicities is to be expected in these cases..."

"I would not call this 'heedlessness'," said Tywin, eyes narrowing. "This is deliberate insult." Gerion watched as his brother took a deep breath. "Has he forgotten with who he is dealing?"

"I doubt it," said Gerion. "You're definitely a Lannister, and as Kevan has a mustache and I have hair, that narrows his options down considerably."

Tywin gave his youngest brother a withering glance that almost made him wonder if the witticism had been worth it. But then, Gerion was more or less used to such glances by now. Kevan was the loyal brother, Tygett the difficult brother who could be prove, on occasion, useful, but Gerion-Gerion was the pest, the parasite, the sponger. As Tywin regularly reminded him, if he had not been his brother, he'd have cast Gerion to the four winds. _And having said that to me, he still expects me to respect and love him._

"We are discussing business, Gerion," said Tywin. "If you wish to trade quips, go to a brothel, and start plying the whores with coin and drink. I've no doubt half the ones in King's Landing have been feeling a pinch without you here to keep them in business."

And somehow any question of the value of that jest was gone. "I don't call your bruised ego 'business', Tywin," replied Gerion. "And anyone who does is only humoring you." Kevan looked at his younger brother with mild reproach.

Tywin merely snorted, and looked away. "I would expect the importance of family pride escapes completely a man who has none."

The look on his eldest brother's face recalled the last cyvasse game that the pair had ever played to Gerion's mind. He looked at the table, and sipped his drink. "I have pride, brother. Not as much as you... but enough." He recalled Tygett's suggestion, when they'd last talked, of lighting out to Essos. 'My sword, your gift with tongues-we'd make a fortune and a name even Tywin would have to respect.'

The prospect seemed remarkably tempting at times like this.

"We should not quarrel amongst ourselves," said Kevan quietly. "Tywin-Gerion meant nothing by what he said."

"Oh, I meant something," said Gerion, "but not an insult. Not truly." He took a deep breath. "Tywin, yes, you helped make this young man king. But sadly for you-Stannis Baratheon knows _exactly_ what this means."

Tywin stalked off towards the chamber's window. "No. No, he merely imagines he does. I served this kingdom as Hand while he was nothing more than an idle fancy of Lord Steffon's..."

_Ahh, yes,_ thought Gerion. _The good old days under your dear friend Aerys, when you didn't dare bring your wife to court for longer than a fortnight, amongst other things..._

"Tywin-Gerion has the right of this," said Kevan. "Stannis may be a young man, but he is not the sort who will let himself be bullied by an elder man..."

Tywin wheeled on Kevan, the rage on his face evident. "You say I am trying to bully the man? He... he has exiled my heir..."

"No, he has exiled _Jaime_, Tywin," said Gerion softly. "Your heir remains safe at Casterly Rock."

"I do not count that... _thing_ my heir," snapped Tywin, striding angrily towards Gerion. "And that you would..."

"Jaime was Kingsguard, Tywin," said Kevan stepping between the pair. "And he killed Aerys. Seven hells, we're fortunate he's being allowed to take the black. If we'd gotten anything more..." He bit his lip. "What do you imagine folk would say?"

"What do I care what the sheep say?" seethed Tywin. "_He is my son_!"

"And he is my nephew, Tywin," said Kevan, placing a hand on his elder brother's shoulder. "This sorrows me, the same as you. But I do not allow it to unhinge my reason. We are married to the Stags now-both in truth, and in saying-and if we tear ourselves loose at this moment, we will both be lost. Is that what you want? To smile at the thought of Stannis Baratheon going to his grave as the Targaryens put you in yours?"

Tywin bowed his head. "So... you would have me meekly accept this insult instead?"

"For now, yes," replied Kevan. "And then, when this war is done-then you remind King Stannis that a Lannister pays his debts."

Tywin nodded. "Yes. Yes, you are right, Kevan. I was letting my anger... overrule my judgement. I am fortunate to have a brother such as you in these moments." He glanced at Gerion, frowning. "Most fortunate." As the pair watched, the Lord of Casterly Rock straightened himself, and left the chamber, without a word.

Gerion waited for him to be gone before glancing at Kevan. "Sometimes I wonder if he realizes the rest of us Lannisters can have debts that need to be repaid."

"He pays yours often enough," said Kevan sitting down beside his brother.

Gerion gave a rueful nod. "True enough." He smiled at his brother. "You did well there."

"I did the best I could," muttered Kevan. He shook his head. "If only... I wish Joanna were still here."

Gerion gave Kevan's hand a pat. "We all do, Kevan."


	24. The Young Kraken

**THE YOUNG KRAKEN**

A Drowned Man was speaking on the docks of Lordsport as Aeron and his elder brother Urri watched. "...Storm is raging, oh, Ironborn! The Dragon-the Dragon has already been cast to the shores of the sea! The Drowned God speaks to his children of great tidings of change and tumult! Soon our history shall writ once again with blood!"

Aeron found himself more interested in the man's features than his words, which were in truth, little different than most of his ilk since the war of the Dragons and the Stags had begun. He was a pinch-faced individual with a high voice, this Drowned Man, with seaweed scattered through his thinning hair in a manner that struck the young Greyjoy as rather forced and artificial. He was no Tarle the Thrice-Drowned, this one-Tarle with his booming voice, and his grim hatchet of a face. When Tarle had spoken of the will of the Drowned God, of terrible visions of doom to come if the Ironborn did not return to the Old Way, one believed he saw what he spoke of. But Tarle had spoken of the ghosts of Dagon Greyjoy and the Red Kraken rising from the oceans to strike down the weak, the cowardly, and the unworthy two weeks ago. The next day he'd been found dead in the square, drowned for a fourth time-and this time drowned in truth-with his tongue ripped out, and his eyes torn out.

The Drowned Men who remained were careful in their prophesyings, after that.

"Has the Dragon REALLY been cast to the shores of the sea?" asked Aeron.

"Close enough," said Urri. "I heard Victarion speaking of it, last night. The Little King holds nothing more than the Reach and Dorne. The rest all swears loyalty to the Stag King."

Aeron chuckled. "They must be madder than most in the green lands, to be following a boy into battle."

"Oh, the Little King doesn't lead them into battle," laughed Urrigon. "He has grown men to do that for him. No, he simply sits on his little throne, and looks all kingly, as they die on his behalf."

Aeron joined his brother in his laughter. "I bet they all shout 'For the brat' as they charge." And yet despite himself, Aeron felt a little bit of envy for these men he was imagining. They, after all, were doing something great and bloody and astonishing, while he and Urri stayed in the Iron Islands, and listened to the vague accounts of what they were doing.

_They are greenlanders_, repeated the young Ironborn to himself. _Soft, weak-not ironborn. It is better to be a son of the sea, even if kept from war, than a weak greenlander, who dresses as a whore would, in jewels purchased by gold_...

"There you two are," came the voice of Harren Botley. "Thick as thieves, as usual," he noted, disapprovingly. "Your lord father wishes to see you."

Aeron and Urrigon Greyjoy turned swiftly, and followed the heir of Lordsport as he led them towards the cart that would take them to great palace of Pyke. Quellon Greyjoy may have known more of the ways of the green lands than most of his ancestors put together, but he was a Greyjoy, of the blood of the Grey Kings for all that, and when he called for something, it was best that it be brought to him, swift as swift could be.

It was a windy day, and the bridges of Pyke were swaying even more than the norm, but Aeron and Urrigon were true Greyjoys, and they passed over them swiftly and fearlessly as if born to. _Soon it will be oars we run_, Aeron thought to himself, and despite himself, his excitement colored his cheeks. He knew he was the youngest of Quellon's children-save for the greenlanders, little Yara, whose squalls could be heard even now, it seemed to Aeron, and late unlamented Robin, neither of whom counted-but he burned to show his father that in him at least the blood of the sea ran strong and pure. And perhaps-perhaps he'd soon get his chance.

Quellon Greyjoy was sitting in the Seastone Chair when they reached him, his three eldest sons before him, while his sole granddaughter, little Asha, dangled from his arm, laughing gleefully. Quellon regarded her with a small smile, even as he spoke to her father. "...my mind up, Balon," he said quietly. "Unless you feel it is grown so soft and worn with age it cannot be trusted anymore."

Balon glanced away, his expression peevish. "I do not think so, father." He bit his lip. "I simply feel you are not..."

"Keep your feelings to yourself, Balon," snapped Quellon. "Until the day you sit in the Seastone Chair as I do. When that day comes, you may spread them hither and non, and even have them bound into books, so all may read and marvel at them. But for now, it is my feelings which count, and I have made them known to you." He turned back to little Asha, who was looking at him with some concern. "One last sway, ehh, little one?" Asha gave a nervous nod, and then began to squeal in delight as Quellon raised the arm from which she dangled, and began to move it back and forth.

"Oh, the mast is waving in the breeze!" declared the Lord Reaper, "waving and swaying to and fro!" Asha laughed in joy, and then gave a disappointed cry as Quellon lowered her to the ground. "There you go, my fine brave girl." He lowered his angular face to hers. "Now, give grandfather a kiss." Asha smiled and gave Quellon a quick peck on the cheek, then darted back to her father, who, almost unknowingly, smiled and tossled her hair as she wrapped her arms around his legs. Quellon gave a satisfied smile, then turned towards his youngest sons. "Where were they?" asked Quellon.

Urri spoke up, always bolder than his brother. "We were at Lordsport, father. Listening to the Drowned Men."

"They say the Dragons have been pushed to the very shores of the sea!" added Aeron.

Quellon nodded to himself. "It is good to see the Drowned God still provides his servants with the benefit of his wisdom," he stated, a slight smile on his face. He coughed slightly. "It is because of this that I have asked for you, for you see, I have something that I require you to do. I am sending Victarion to Seagard, there to make his way to King's Landing, to bring my full terms to the Baratheon." Aeron glanced at his brother, who stood silent as this was said, a frown on his heavy face. "Accompanying Victarion will be a small party to help with this matter-and among them will be you two."

Aeron was certain his mouth hung open in astonishment, and Urri-Urri seemed close to tears. "But-but father!" said his elder brother. "I... if we went to war... I hoped..."

Euron gave a sour laugh, a laugh that made Aeron feel cold to the soles of his feet. "See, father. Even the brats know what a dishonor this is." He placed a familiar hand on Victarion's shoulder. "Much less dear, loyal Victarion..."

Quellon turned his gaze to the Crow's Eye, and Euron's mouth shut. "I do not recall asking your opinion on this matter, Euron. And I would say your thoughts are of even less value than Balon's at the moment. Something I hope you will recall."

Euron frowned, and fidgeted, but-as always happened when Quellon said such things to him, to the eternal marvel of Aeron-he said nothing. One part of Aeron was overjoyed to see his brother so outfaced, but another, smaller part was whispering that the Crow's Eye always grew more vicious in private, when he was overmatched by Quellon in public.

His father had turned to regard his two youngest sons, his expression soft. "Now, Urri-Aeron-and, yes Victarion-I am not doing this to shame you, but to honor you. You are sailing in seas that we Ironborn have not sailed for... many long years."

"But not true seas," noted Balon.

"They must still be sailed," replied Quellon, in a tone that brooked no arguments. He gestured to Urri and Aeron, to step forward, and when they did, he placed strong, firm hands on each of them. "You two to go forward to do me honor, and to show the world what fine sons I have had."

Euron gave a dark chuckle at this, one that made Aeron go weak in the knees. He shivered slightly and turned to Urri. "We will do this for you, father," said his brother, proudly.

Aeron gave a swift nod. "For you, and for House Greyjoy, and for the Iron Islands."

Quellon smiled, and stood to his feet. As always, Aeron was amazed by his father's height when he stood. Even if the years had stooped him slightly, Quellon Greyjoy stood tall and proud as one of the Iron Islands themselves, jutting from the sea. "Good lads. Good lads." He turned to the three eldest of his sons. "Victarion, prepare your ship. Balon, Euron-go assist in gathering the crew I've indicated."

Balon, Euron and Victarion all bowed and left, little Asha following at their heels. Quellon watched them leave, his expression quiet. "Too many," he whispered softly.

"Too many what, father?" asked Aeron.

Quellon seemed surprised at this. "Oh, nothing. Nothing, Aeron. Simply... a stray thought." He smiled at him. "Well-you two best prepare. Oh, the things you shall see! It will be quite good for both of you, I think." He nodded to himself. "There's a reason we Ironborn travel so much, I feel." The Lord Reaper took a deep, slightly rattling breath. "There is too much grimness here. We must go elsewhere, to truly live..."

It seemed to Aeron that his father's eyes were watching the vanishing form of Euron as he said this, but it occurred to him this might just be a passing fancy.


	25. The Knight of Hounds (II)

**THE KNIGHT OF HOUNDS**

"And your name, if you please?" Tytos Clegane asked the young freerider before him.

The young man fidgeted nervously. "Pate, Ser," he replied.

Tytos gave a weary nod. His call for freeriders and hedge knights to increase the numbers of his irregular army of survivors had succeeded, and as so often happened when such things did, he found himself almost wishing it hadn't. "Pate." He gazed at the horse the man had brought. "Would you mind if I called you Pate of the Piebald?" Tytos gave an awkward cough. "It is simply that we have so many Pates in this company..."

The homely face spread in a broad grin. "Why, no, Ser! No! Not at all!" He gave a hearty laugh. "Why it's like a lord's name!"

Tytos nodded. "Very good. So, if I call for 'Pate of the Piebald', I mean you, and if you hear a call for 'Long-haired Pate' or 'Bald Pate', or 'Red Pate', or any other Pate... well, you may ignore that, as it means... that other Pate." Tytos almost expected to see the man deflate at that, but no, no, he remained proud and cheerful. _And why not? He knows all those other Pates-they but attend his glorious rise. He is the Pate whom history has taken by the hand and declared 'I shall do great things with you.'_

The Knight of Hounds gave a wistful sigh as he watched the young man go off to join the others. He mocked that boy because he had been that boy, on the eve of the War of the Ninepenny Kings. In a way he'd been that boy on the eve of every tourney, every melee, every display of arms for years after that. And then-when his hopes for himself faded-at first there'd been Gregor. So large-so quick-so full of promise, at the very start of it all...

_Let it go, Tytos. Let it go._ The monster that had sprung from his loins had fled Westeros, in all likelihood, and left a black mark on his family's name that would likely stay for generations. _But he'll no more haunt my hall, and perhaps Sandor will come home again, and Scylla, she'll smile once more..._ Tytos shook his head. His father had thought he'd paid the price for his family to rise when he lost three hounds and a leg. But no. No, the little clan that had become the Cleganes were still paying that price for gaining a holdfast, a town, and a lord's name of their very own. Perhaps one day, they'd finally have the balance clear.

"Another man for your ragged little army?" said Ser Alyn Stackspear, an unpleasant grin on his unpleasant face as Tytos passed him.

"Another Pate," answered Tytos. "Still, he brings a healthy piebald horse, and he knows how to ride it. We're in no place to choose our companions, Ser Alyn. Only to hope that the Seven send us ones we can use." _And I include you in that, boy,_ thought the Knight of Hounds to himself. Ser Alyn was a knight of a family far older and distinguished than the Cleganes, and seemed to be actively offended at the circumstances that had placed him under Tytos' authority, despite his youth and utter lack of experience. _Still, he's not daft enough to try and sieze control. So perhaps there is hope for him._

The young knight fell in behind him as they marched to the great tower of Silverhill. "And with your army of farmboys on draft horses, you mean to hold back Highgarden?" said Alyn with a laugh.

"If you wish to try and win a war without an army, Ser Alyn, you may be my guest." Ser Tytos gave a dark chuckle. "In my experience, it does not end well." He shook his head. "As for me, when I have no army, I get to work at building a new army."

"Which you then send out dancing all over the countryside," muttered Ser Alyn, eyes squinting in disdain.

"Scouting and harassment are also good tasks for an army, especially when it is this sort of army," said Tytos. "It may not be much for winning battles, but at the very least, we may make the Tyrells doubt themselves, and move more cautiously. Which will give us time..."

Young Adam Marbrand approached the pair. "A raven came from the Rock. For you, Ser Clegane." He handed Tytos the message. Tytos read it, and allowed himself a smile.

"What is it?" asked Alyn, peevishly.

"They have received our message," answered Tytos. "And Ser Tygett Lannister is coming with a proper army."

Marbrand gave a surprised laugh. "You-you've done it, Ser. Against all the odds, we..."

Tytos gave a dismissive wave. "Have not been overwhelmed yet. But the morrow is the morrow..." He frowned, a niggling feeling of unease growing in his breast.

Marbrand nodded. "Well, Ser, until then, Lady Serrett has prepared a dinner for us, and bids you partake of it."

Tytos gave a bow. "Tell her it would be my honor and my pleasure."

"Let us hope the pease are cooked properly this time," muttered Ser Alyn.

"Alyn!" snapped Marbrand.

Tytos left them there on the stair, his mind filling with questions that he knew he could not answer.


	26. Catelyn

**CATELYN**

Cat was lying in the Godswood, enjoying the feel of bright sunlight and a cool breeze on her face when her father called for her. _This is spring, true spring,_ she thought to herself, _come at last_. She was quietly hoping that this war would be ended soon, just like the winter that had spawned it when her father's voice interrupted her thoughts. "Cat! Cat, my dear!" shouted Hoster Tully. "Where are you? I've news-excellent news for you!"

Catelyn Tully rose with a yawn. "I'm here, father!" Glancing around the Godswood, she saw the Lord Paramount of the Riverlands standing at the western end, a letter in his gnarled hand. She gave her legs shake, and walked toward Hoster, who smiled broadly as she approached.

"Excellent news, my dear," he stated, handing her the letter. "Your lord husband returns to the North with many of his lords, and my goodsister Lady Shalla Whent plans to host them at Harrenhal with feasting and merriment. And we are to attend." Catelyn smiled slightly, as she read her aunt's stately handwriting. "I trust this is to your satisfaction?"

Catelyn gave a nod. "Of course, father. My husband and I..." _Have barely talked to one another, in all our marriage_, came the treacherous thought, but Catelyn sent it far from her. "Have been too long separated."

Hoster gave a nod. "Ahh, yes. I know the feeling. When your mother and I..." He shook his head and sighed. "Ahh, you do not want hear an old man's memories."

"It is all right, father," said Cat, placing a comforting hand on his shoulder. Hoster Tully's love for her late mother, Minisa Whent, had been famed throughout the Riverlands-and even mocked in some less-than-pleasant quarters. He had never completely been the same since her death in childbirth. _But he goes on_, she reminded herself. _He knows he has people near who need him._

"Thank you, Cat," said Hoster. "It will be good for us to get out. You, and I, and Edmure..."

There was a name missing in his list, and noticeably so-her sister Lysa, gone off two moon's turns ago to King's Landing to be with her husband and "recover from her misfortune". "Misfortune"-when put that way it almost sounded quaint, what had happened to Lysa and the child of Jon Arryn's she had carried. It had not been quaint at all, listening to her scream and wail for a night and a day, nor had it been quaint hearing her weep for many long days after that. And seeing off the pale, silent shadow that had headed to King's Landing... that had not been quaint at all. Cat had wanted to say 'You will recover from this, and know joy again' but the glance Lysa had given her, empty, cold and hateful had killed the words on her lips. Still, the letters that had come from King's Landing since then had been cheerful, and full of life.

_She is young_, Cat reminded herself. _There will be other children. She will fill the Vale of Arryn with them, in time._ She tried to keep her mind on more pleasant things by focusing on the letter before her, and quickly found herself raising an eyebrow. "Jaime Lannister will be there?" she asked quietly.

"On his way north to the Wall," said Hoster with a nod. "Well, him and quite a few others, but he will probably be the only one who's unchained on the way..." He regarded his daughter with a smile. "Do not worry, Cat. We will simply smile at the young man, and make polite conversation. We Tullys have managed to do so for many generations now, and for worse characters. Speaking of which-the Late Lord Frey has wed again."

Catelyn blinked at that. "How many is...?"

"A most godly seven," answered Hoster, rolling his eyes. "Lord Weasel is quite put out that I neither attended nor sent him a gift. I'd think that for a man of his years-and to be frank, appearance-GETTING married would be the gift, but then that is old honest Hoster Tully for you."

"That poor girl," said Cat, laughing slightly despite herself.

"Oh, I'm not so sorry for young Annara Farring," said Hoster. "She knew what she was getting into-or at least imagined she did. It's Stevron Frey who has my sympathies-waiting forever for that old lecher to at last pass on. He has, I have heard, become so distraught over the news of his father's most recent marriage that he has taken ill, and now spends much of his time abed in Stoney Sept, commanding his troops by raven..." Father and daughter shared a laugh at that. "The Seven gives us all burdens," noted Hoster. "To me, they gave the Freys..."

Catelyn smiled. "Father... should... may I bring him?"

Lord Tully regarded his daughter levelly. "Do you think he is up to travel?"

"He is hale and hearty," she said quietly. "And he will have to go North soon anyways."

"Very well," said Hoster, with a smile. "You get the little dear ready, and he will see his father at Harrenhal."

She turned and left the Godswood then, and walked through the halls to the nursery. Her son's nurse was cradling him as she entered, but handed the boy wordlessly to her as she approached. The babe gave a merry gurgle as his mother took him, and Catelyn smiled at the comfortable weight. It felt good to hold him, and good to look at him. "We are going to see your father," she whispered to him, and as the boy gave a playful little kick in her arms, it occurred to her that whatever the turns her life had taken, it was on the whole, not a bad one.


	27. Davos (II)

**DAVOS**

"We must move swiftly like a swan ship," said Salladhor Saan, leading his friend down the unsteady Braavosi street. "The Sealord of the Braavosi does not like to be kept waiting. Especially by a Westerosi smuggler..."

Davos Seaworth frowned at that. "I am a knight," he said, barely believing it, "and the emissary of a king." _Who is staying onboard a smuggler's ship, and who the Sealord is practically meeting in secret_.

"And to the Sealord, you are first and foremost still a smuggler," noted the Lyseni with a shrug. "That is the way of the world in Braavos, good ser. You tread now in waters I have long sailed, my friend." He shook his head, and gave his tongue a click. "Why, whenever I deal with them, I suffer such indignities-I, a lord with the blood of kings in my veins."

Davos gave a snort. Salladhor was a lord by his own account, and no one else's, and the "kings" whose blood ran in his veins were men like the famed Ninepenny King Samarro Saan, or Saathos Saan of the Basilisk Isles. _And now he fights for Stannis Baratheon_. Davos wondered what that said about the Stags' cause, and then quietly swore to himself. _As if the Dragons would not have Salladhor and all his ships if they could. That we have them is a sign of strength, not weakness._

"Thief!" came the voice of young woman, speaking in Westerosi. "Stop! Thief!" As a young boy darted in front of him, Davos' hand darted out and grabbed him firmly by the shoulder. The boy turned to stare at him nervously, only for his accuser to reach the little cluster-a pretty young woman dark-haired, with a strong, sharp-featured face, dressed well, with a child on her shoulder. "You... you..." she said, grey eyes narrowed as she stared at the boy. She turned to regard Davos. "Thank you. I..." She turned again on the boy. "He has taken my purse..."

Davos gave the boy a slight shake. "Give it back to her," he noted. The boy gave a resentful look, and produced the little purse. The lady accepted it with a bow, and then regarded the little boy for a moment.

"Here," she said at length, producing a coin that she handed to the boy. "Don't steal." The boy grabbed the coin eagerly and then darted away into the crowd.

"If you do not mind this humble man saying so, fair lady," said Salladhor, who'd been watching all this with droll amusement, "that coin was as wasted as the moral instruction that went with it..."

"He looked hungry," said the young lady, stroking the head of her babe. "I'd hate for his mother to know that he was going without food..."

"The boy's mother is in all likelihood a whore who would not care if he lives or dies," noted Salladhor with a shrug.

The young woman glared at the Lyseni. "And how would you like it if some stranger spoke of your mother that way?"

"As this stranger would be speaking straight and utter truth, I would not care a single groat for it," replied Salladhor with a smile.

"You mustn't pay attention to Salladhor, miss," said Davos. "He's a heartless old smuggler, through and through."

The woman gave a nod. "Yes, yes, I see that's the case," she muttered. Turning to Davos she gave him a smile. "I... thank you again. For the help, and the kindness, and... for being a Westerosi." She shook her head. "It's been months since I talked with someone else from the Seven Kingdoms..."

Davos chuckled. "We are in the same boat, miss. I've been roaming the Free Cities for... quite a length of time now..." He paused and gave a rough bow. "Davos Seaworth, miss."

"SER Davos Seaworth," added Salladhor Saan.

The woman looked quite surprised. "I..." She gave a rough curtsie-made rougher by the child she was carrying-and smiled. "Arya Flint," she stated. "And my son. Rodrick." She glanced at the pair. "I... again, it's been a long while since I spoke with a fellow Westerosi. How... goes the war...?"

"The land still bleeds, miss," answered Davos. "But King Stannis will soon get it aright, and fix its wounds with justice." A smile came to his face, unbidden.

Arya Flint gave a nod. "Well... that is good then." She gave a slight cough. "I... I really must be going..." She gave another awkward curtsy and then moved away.

"Young Miss Flint!" said Salladhor Saan, as she left. "Perhaps you would like to meet with us later on my ship, _The Valyrian_, for a meal? We are having savory crab stew!"

"Sorry, but no," said the young woman, vanishing down a side street.

Salladhor shook his head as she vanished. "Ahh, Ser Davos, Ser Davos, you truly are a knight of your Seven. To have aided that young dainty for nothing more than a smile and a thank you..." He chuckled.

"I've a wife," said Davos bluntly.

"And I have many," said Salladhor, "but my eyes remain alert for chances to have a few more..." He sighed wistfully. "Ahh, well. Come, let us hope the Sealord has not grown impatient with us."

It was some time before they reached the meeting place, a small and simple house on a back street. The Sealord was seated in a simple chair as they entered the room, idly stroking the cat on his lap. A man with a bald head stood nearby, hand on the hilt of his narrow sword. It occurred to Davos that he was not even armed, but he shook his head. _If they wished to kill me, they could have it done on the streets, and no one would be the wiser_. "Your..." began Davos, before realizing he had no idea how to speak to a Sealord. "Lordship," he finished, lamely.

If the Sealord was in anyway offended by this, he didn't show it. "Please, Ser Davos, there is no reason for such formality here. This is a quiet meeting, held between us as... private individuals, so that we may determine where we stand. Nothing more." He scratched his cat's head. "You may call me 'Lord Fregar', just as I will call you Ser Davos, yes?"

Davos nodded. "If you wish... ."

The Sealord nodded, then turned to Salladhor. "Lyseni, if you would be so kind to leave...?"

Salladhor gave a stately bow. "Of course. Never let it be said that a Saan stays where he is not wanted, if that is where he does not want to be..." He politely exited the room, as the Sealord chuckled.

"A bothersome people, the Lyseni," he said at length. "And the Saans are the most bothersome of the whole race. Still, it is hard not to admire their daring, at times, as it is something most of their fellows lack..." He regarded Davos. "So... you are here for your Stag King, yes? Seeking ships, as you were in Pentos before this, and in Myr before that, and in Tyrosh before that." The Sealord gave a smile. "I suppose you will go to Lorath next."

"Only if I need more ships after we're done," answered Davos.

"One would think Braavos had a war fleet simply lying around for you to take back to the Stag King," said Lord Fregar. He gave his cat a scratch behind the ears and smiled. "And one would imagine that we would simply give it to you if we had it."

"You would be paid," said Davos. "Handsomely."

"That's a song Braavos has heard before," noted the Sealord. "Why should we pay heed to it this time? We have concerns of our own, and other wars to worry about. The fighting in the Disputed Lands grows most worrisome, we have heard. Tyrosh-Tyrosh is reaching out to Myr, which is, to be true, not so unusual-and to Volantis, which is quite unusual indeed. Volantis will probably refuse them, of course-but we are wondering if they will definitely do so, and the people grow worried. Another Century of Blood... it would not happen, we say, but then we wonder if we are mistaking what we wish for what will be..."

Davos felt almost like a man cast adrift in the ocean, trying desperately to tread water and not drown. "Lord Fregar, I... really can't make any promise about Tyrosh, or Volantis, or any other city. I can only promise that if King Stannis is given the aid he seeks, you will be repaid." His hand went to his luck as he said this, and then... then it all seemed so marvelously clear to him. He raised his gloved left hand. "He is a man of his word who makes certain to see debts paid. I brought him onions, and he gave me a knighthood..." He removed the glove, and showed his maimed hand. "And I had been a smuggler for many years, so he took these four fingertips for my crimes. By his own hand, as I wouldn't allow any other to take them." He put the glove back on. "That is the man I would have you deal with. That is the man I serve." He gave a nod. "With pride, Lord . With pride."

Davos Seaworth stood there, and waited for the Sealord's answer.


	28. The Black Bat in White (II)

**THE BLACK BAT IN WHITE**

Ser Gerold Hightower regarded the knight kneeling before him with a rather dubious look. "And those were his terms?"

"They were, Lord Commander," answered Barristan Selmy. He glanced around the room at his fellow Kingsguard members, his expression somewhat abashed. Ser Oswell felt an acute sense of embarrassment. _Do not look so low, Barristan,_ he wished to say. _You are one of the best of us. Perhaps the **very** best_. But he did not, as the expression on the White Bull's face suggested that would be... an unwise statement to make.

Ser Gerold snorted. "Well, we shall send the Usurper a raven then, with our answer. The Kingsguard spits upon the pardon he has no right to give. Especially as he gives it for that which is no crime, but simply honest duty. We serve the realm's true king, who is Viserys Targaryen, third of his name." _Except, perhaps he is not_, thought Oswell to himself. "And we will do so with our lives, and our deaths!" _And the deaths of other men, who are not Kingsguard_, noted Oswell, shocked by his own bitterness. Ser Gerold leaned forward pointing emphatically. "The Kingsguard does not play games with the succession! Not since Ser Cole!" Ser Oswell glanced at the Sword of Morning and found Ser Dayne glancing at him. One look showed they shared the same thought-_but that is what you had us do, White Bull. And you know it._

Ser Gerold leaned back. "As for these men he has installed around him who he calls our brothers-we know them not. Our new brothers in the white are Ser Ullwyk Uller of Hellholt, Ser Arron Santagar of Spotswood, and my nephew Ser Garth Hightower of Oldtown, and I will add they are better men all than the Usurper's lackeys!"

Ser Barristan Selmy gave the White Bull a slightly reproachful look. "Ser Ullwyk Uller is a better man than Ser Brynden Tully?" he asked quietly. Ser Oswell had to suppress a chuckle at that, and he noted that Ser Garth was grinning, despite his great-uncle's displeasure.

"In that he did not kneel to this... _callow_ Baratheon boy who dares to step to the throne that his murdering brother cleared the way for him, aye, he is!" snapped Ser Gerold.

"My pardon, Lord Commander," coughed Ser Barristan. "I merely felt... that we should try to remember our foes are not men devoid of honor..."

"They have killed a king, and placed a _usurper_ in his place," muttered Ser Gerold, darkly. "That says all we are to know of their honor." He stared at Ser Barristan darkly. "Or are you now among them, Ser Barristan?"

Ser Barristan frowned. "Stannis Baratheon offered me a place as Lord Commander if you should refuse to serve him, Ser. And I said that I would never hold such a position while you lived, and that as you chose, I would follow."

"And yet he released you," said Ser Arthur Dayne quietly.

"With my sworn word that I would not take to the field against him," said Barristan, with a pained nod.

Ser Gerold nodded. "Well, you may still perform many duties of the Kingsguard. The King must be guarded, after all. As the Princess must." The White Bull shut his eyes and took a deep breath. "They are all that remains." _Save the one you had us cast to the four winds, White Bull_, thought Oswell.

"Both things I am eager to do," said Ser Barristan, rising to his feet.

Ser Gerold regarded him for a moment, then turned to Ser Oswell. "Take him to the King." Ser Oswell gave the Lord Commander a bow, then departed from the room, Ser Barristan followed him out. The two knights wandered the halls of Highgarden for awhile in silence.

"I was surprised, when you did not come with the Prince to the Trident," said Barristan at last.

"He gave us... other duties," said Ser Oswell quietly.

Ser Barristan gave a nod at that, and then looked at his Sworn Brother pleadingly. "Seven help me, Oswell, I wish I'd been slain as Prince Lewyn was, if it would remove the stain I've taken by bearing Lord Baratheon's terms, but..."

"Do not worry, Ser Barristan," said Ser Oswell. "The White Bull does not truly doubt your honor." _He doubts his own_. "No man can fault you what you have done. You fought valiantly, and took wounds in service to your king. And now... you may continue to serve." _Do not envy the dead, Ser Barristan, and do not envy us. Both are envying you, and you seem blind to it._ The sound of children's laughter reached his ears. Ser Ullwyk and Ser Arron stood before a door of rosewood, with gilded Tyrell rose upon it, hands on their swords. They gazed at Ser Barristan questioningly. "It is all right. The Lord Commander has given him permission." With a nod, they stood aside, and opened the door.

The young king and his companions were seated in a circle, in what appeared to be a mock Small Council meeting. "Yes, indeed, Lord Willas," said Viserys sagaciously, "the holdfast we will build must have a double wall. And a great moat. That way, it will be unpentrable."

Ser Barristan gave a cheerful chuckle and stepped forward-only to have a young girl rush at him, brandishing a small spear. "Hold! Hold!" she shouted. "You stand before the King! Hold and declare yourself!" Barristan stared at the fierce girl, with her awkward face, narrow eyes and ratty-brown hair, clearly baffled.

Viserys turned and regarded Barristan, a smile appearing on his young face. "It is all right, Obara," he said, as he stood up. He approached, and placed a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder. "This is Ser Barristan Selmy, who stood watch over me, when I was a child." He stared at the man, violet eyes wide with admiration. "And who saved my father singlehandedly at Duskendale."

Ser Barristan knelt before the king. "Your Grace... I..."

"No, no, do not speak," replied Viserys, waving his hand. "I know your loyalty. I _know_ it." He turned to the girl. "This one is my dear friend, Obara Sand. She is my sworn companion, and she has pledged to protect me with her life, as you have." The king turned, and stood on his tiptoes. As the two Kingsguard watched, he kissed her on the cheek, and Obara gave a delighted shiver. Viserys turned to smile at them. "So, see, we are all friends here."

Ser Oswell gave a slight shrug, as his Sworn Brother fixed him with a wondering gaze. _Yes, yes, but the King dotes upon her, her father is another favorite_, thought Oswell, as he rehearsed the speech he would make to Selmy later, _and besides, it is best to let youthful infatuations such as this run their course..._

"I am glad to meet you, Lady Obara," said Ser Barristan, with a stately bow, "and more glad to know that we are all friends."

Viserys turned, filled with enthusiasm. "You must meet the rest." He gestured to a young boy. "That is Drey Dalt! He is his brother's page! Aurane Waters-half-brother to Lord Velaryon! And there-that is Dickon Manwoody! He is his uncle's squire! That one is Lady Nym-Obara's sister! And there is Hobber Redwyne-and his brother, Horas. Their father is my Master of Ships! That is Victaria Tyrell! And that is Alyssane Hightower! And there is Sylva Spotwood! And there is Tyan Fossoway! And here-here is my especial friend, Lord Willas Tyrell."

The brown-haired young boy, only a few years his elder, who Viserys had placed a hand on the shoulder of gave a thankful nod to the king. "Your Grace is kind," he said in a quiet voice.

"No, no, you are kind," said Viserys. "You gave me and my sister shelter, when we stood betrayed by those who'd claimed loyalty to us, and you took up our cause, like your father before you, who the Stags have killed, as they killed mine!" Viserys' voice took a sudden vehemence as he spoke this last part, and his violet eyes flashed with anger, but only for a moment. He turned to the Kingsguard, smiling broadly. "When this war is over, and we are both men grown, I will make Willis my Hand!" Viserys gave a nod. "Yes, my friends will all aid me, when I truly rule the realm."

Ser Barristan chuckled. "It is good to see Your Grace so full of hope," he said. Ser Oswell had to agree. He remembered the boy he had known back at King's Landing-lonely, and sheltered, and scared. _This is what he needs-what he has always needed. Friends, and companions, and life. Oh, I suspect there will always be a touch of his father to him, but... if he is surrounded by light and good fellowship, instead of darkness and suspicion, it will not go the way Aerys' madness did. He will become a pleasant, loving man, and, perhaps, in time, even a good king._

Viserys moved away from the little circle of friends, Obara hovering by his side, while gesturing for the Kingsguard to follow. "Come! Come! You must see my sister! And the Lady Margaery!" The king gave a thoughtful nod. "I am thinking I will marry one or the other. Dany is my sister, of course, and the blood of the dragon should remain pure-but then father and mother were brother and sister before us, and grandfather and grandmother before them, and wedding Margaery would make Willas my goodbrother, which is an honor he greatly deserves..." He tapped his chin. "Perhaps I will marry both. We are grown few, we Targaryens..."

Obara's narrow-set eyes narrowed further. "The Tyrells are but stewards, far too common to wed a Dragon..."

Viserys turned to her, and placed a hand on her cheek. "I am the king," he said, stroking her face. "I decide who is common and who is not." And then he leaned forward on his tiptoes and kissed her again, this time on the lips.

Ser Oswell gave Ser Barristan an apologetic glance, as they moved onward.


	29. Jaime (II)

**JAIME**

She was standing by the window when he entered, clad in red silk and Myrish lace, her hand playing with a fine necklace of silver and amber. The room was dark, lit by a single torch, but her hair glowed with a golden light all its own. His lady love, his twin self, his sweet Cersei. She turned as he stepped towards her and smiled at him. "Jaime..." she said, and then she was in his arms, and he was kissing her sweet lips...

_I have starved of this,_ he thought, as he felt his sister's lips on his, her arms wrapping around him, her breasts against his chest. He began to work at untying the laces that held her dress on...

Cersei's hands pressed against him, as she backed away. "Jaime," she whispered. "Not now."

Jaime stood there, abashed. _She is right. I... Stannis Baratheon has been more than fair with me, and I... would repay him by making him a cuckold..._ "I... I am sorry, Cersei," he began. "Seeing you like this... I lost control..."

Cersei shook her head, and walked over to a small chest. "It's no... I forgive you." She opened the chest. "Now hurry! We must act quickly." She pulled a heavy cloak out of the chest and tossed it at him. It fell quite short, and Jaime watched as it landed on the ground. Cersei continued to pull things out of the chest, oblivious. "There's a horse in the stables, waiting. I use it for riding... some days. You will have to saddle it, but... I... we can be at the docks, in an hour or so, and be gone across the Narrow Sea before they..."

Jaime blinked. "Cersei... Cersei, what are you talking about?"

Cersei stared at him as if he had gone mad. "We must flee, Jaime! Flee to Essos!" She looked at him, green eyes flashing and luminous. "They'll never find us there! We-we can take new names, live as man and wife! You can make a living as a sellsword, perhaps, and I... I'll be your lady! They won't know us, they think one Andal the same as another..." She gave a fervant nod. "It will be perfect!"

Jaime listened to the excited babble issuing from Cersei's lips and suppressed an urge to ask if he was going to carve out a little kingdom to call their own eventually in her wild imaginings. "Cersei..." He took a deep breath. "Cersei, will you listen to yourself? This is... madness..."

Cersei blinked. "Jaime, he means to send you to the Wall!" She gave out a strange noise, half a growl, half a sob. "The Wall! You'll freeze, and shiver, and... and die up there, alone, without... without..." She picked up a cloak she'd set aside, and began to put it on. "Hurry! Get on your cloak!" She gestured to a little bundle in the chest. "And make sure I don't forget those! They'll pay for passage!"

Jaime stared at the bundle. "You mean-you haven't actually gotten us passage on a ship?"

Cersei stared at him, as if he was mad. "Of course not! I'm the Queen, Jaime! I am watched! Always watched! By the court... By Sta-my hu-the King... By father..." She shut her eyes and shuddered. "But the boats always come and go. It should be easy to get one to take us where we need to go. To Pentos. Or Braavos. Or Norvos. Or some such place. It doesn't matter where. Just that it's not _here_." She turned to look at him, and her eyes went wide. "Come on! Get on your cloak!"

"Cersei..." Jaime sighed, and shook his head. "I am not doing this." He half expected her to scream at this, or shout, or burst into tears. Instead she simply stood there, her mouth wide open, her eyes glistening. "I... Stannis did not do this to me, Cersei. It is my choice. I _chose_ to take the black. I... I must regain what I have lost." He bit his lip and looked out the window. "The realm... they all think it is when I killed Aerys, and perhaps... perhaps they are right. But I... I do not know. Perhaps it was earlier. Perhaps it was when fa... later. All I know is the white cloak brought me shame. Perhaps the black will bring me honor."

"Honor?" spat out Cersei. He turned to look at her. Her mouth was no longer hanging open-now it was moving, clenching open and shut as if she was trying to find words that would convey what she was feeling. And her eyes were livid with rage. "You chose... You... That frozen... It..." And then she began to laugh. "You joined the White because you wanted ready access to my cunt, you little..." she said in what was half a guffaw and half a snarl. "Honor? You talk of...? You..." She stared at him for a moment, then rushed forward, and began to rain blows on him. Jaime made no move to stop her.

_She is... simply distraught, and not thinking about things,_ he thought to himself as her clumsy fists struck his chest. _Really, they don't even hurt._ "Honor!" she cried. "You and your _honor_!" She spat on his feet. "I have misjudged you! I have never known you! Not the real you! My _golden lion_!" She gave a bitter laugh. "My yellow kitten more like it!" She glared at him, as she stepped back. "Well, no longer mine! It is good you're going off to be a crow now! It suits you better to be a scavenging bird." Her eyes regarded him with immense contempt. "A coward like you! You are no lion!" She turned away from him. "I have been a fool! Mention this to no one! Gods, I almost fled my husband for you! You! A false lion!"

Jaime found himself growing irritated, despite trying not to be. "And I suppose the king your husband is a true stag..." he muttered.

Cersei snickered at that. "Oh, rest assured, he is. That I know beyond a shadow of a doubt." She gave another laugh. "So do not fear for me, dear brother, as you go seeking your honor up amongst the ice, and the grumkins, and the snarks. I will be well looked after. Indeed, I expect will barely notice you've gone."

Jaime felt an ache in him, a bitter, dull terrible ache as she said all this. _I should get out of this room. **Now**._ "Well, I am happy for you," he said, as he remained there. "You've gotten everything you really cared for I see..."

"And you nothing," snarled Cersei. "They despise you, you know. The men who have taken your place in the white. Each and every one of them spits on you. As do I." And once again she spat at him, but this time, she aimed for his face. And struck it, so the spittle hit him squarely on a cheek.

"Cersei," he said, in what was either longing or anger-he did not know-as he reached out to grab her by the shoulder.

She slapped his hand away, and Jaime stepped backward as if scalded. "Do not touch me! Do _not **touch** me_!" She angrily waved at the door. "Go! Get out of my sight! I never want to see you again!" She turned around, and gripped her own shoulders with a nervous shiver.

Jaime stood there for a moment, and then quietly left the room. As he shut the door behind him, he heard Cersei burst into tears and loud sobs. A part of him wished to go to her then, but he knew it would not go well. Instead he left the chambers, and walked on. When he reached the battlements, he simply stopped there, and stood looking at the skies. It was comforting somehow, though he found himself wondering if the direction he was looking was north, towards the Wall, or to the east, across the Narrow Sea. He wished that Tyrion were here, or his uncle Gerion. They knew such things. He felt small, and quiet, and for the first time in his life, truly and utterly alone.


	30. The Foul-Smelling Flower (III)

**THE FOUL SMELLING FLOWER**

Ellara Sand threw her head back and laughed, long and hard. "With an _Ibbenese_ woman?" she at last declared, when she finally regained enough control to form words.

"No!" declared Garth Tyrell emphatically, slapping a chubby hand against the table. "No, not **a** _woman_. Many Ibbenese!" He gave a merry chuckle. "Ahh, sweet lady, I swear to you, the sight of a faint wisp of a mustache in the Ibbenese-style still makes this old heart beat faster from fond nostalgia." The seneschal gave a smack of his lips as the dinner company exploded into laughter.

Prince Oberyn Martell chuckled to himself and shook his head. "My good Lord Seneschal has lived a remarkable life, I see."

"Indeed!" said Garth with a nod. "My apologies for the braggadocio, but then I view false modesty as a greater sin than pride. Oh, I have often flirted with the idea of writing down the story of my life, though I fear the resulting tome would make Mushroom's _Testament_ appear the model of propiety, and likely result in the Faith, the Citadel, and the religious and civil heads of the Free Cities joining hands to call for my head." He gave a sigh, and popped a spicy Dornish pepper in his mouth. After a chew, he continued. "Still-the stories I can tell. Long nights in Lys! Bold days in Braavos! Temptations in Tyrosh! Plotting in Pentos! Madness in Myr! Queer going-ons in Qohor!"

"And lust in Lorath, no doubt," said Ser Ryon Allyrion, with a snicker.

"Oh no," said Garth with a dismissive wave. "No, Lorath is a frightfully dull place. You go, you look at the mazes, you nod in dull wonder, and then you pray to whatever powers you believe in that there's a ship readily available to get you to somewhere that isn't Lorath." He gave an exaggerated wince. "In my case, alas, this took a month, wherein I wound up learning all sorts of details about seal-hunting that quickly passed from fascinating to dull..." The seneschal glanced around the table at the laughing guests and feigned offense. "I say! You _doubt_ me! You doubt my word, as a gentleman!" He pointed across the table. "Moryn! My dear brother! You were there with me for much of it! We heard the bells of Norvos toll midnight together, you and I!"

Ser Moryn Tyrell laughed and gave a merry nod. "It's true-it's all true..." He glanced around at the company. "Or rather, the parts that I _saw_ happen _are_. As to the rest, I must confess, I stand in the same position of doubting wonder as the rest of you..." He spread his hands. "For example-I know that my dear brother took a trip up the Rhoyne in a Volantene pleasure barge at the invite of... a certain lady of high family, and her husband. And I know that it lasted for a moon's turn. But as to what occurred to my brother from the moment I saw him stride upon the deck, to a month later, when he was deposited in our rooms by their servants, a drunken heap, I rely on his account, the same as you."

"And what accounts they are!" said Ser Aron Qorgyle, chuckling.

"As I can state from personal experience," declared Martyn Mullendore, "they are things of great substance and volume. Much like the man who says them."

Another general burst of laughter burst out around the table. Ellara Sand rolled her eyes. "Personally, I think underneath the mockery you are all a bit envious of the Lord Seneschal. He's a man who has spent his life doing what most only dream of."

"And I pay the price of it, dear lady," said Garth, with a wag of his head. "I was not always as you now see me, you realize! Why I when I was younger, they called me "Garth the Gorgeous", "Garth the Glittering", "Garth the Gregarious"... and so forth. Frankly, I can't recall them all, only that they enjoyed coupling my name with various superlatives beginning with 'g'. And now..." He gestured to his face, and supressed a belch. "A ruined face, and a ruined digestion. Ahh, well. It could be worse. 'Garth the Gross' has a pleasing ring, when I've ancestors named "Garth the Gory" and "Garlan the Grim", after all..." He gave a shrug. "And I like to imagine a faint glimmer of my former charm remains."

Ellara leaned forward and kissed him on the cheek. "More than a faint glimmer," she said as she sat back in her chair.

"I bless you, sweet lady," said Garth, gently patting her hand, "and if I were a much younger man, I would probably do more, but alas, the sword grows rusty in its sheath, the stallion grows lame in the hoof, and the once mighty tower is worn down until only broken stone remains. But rest assured, if the mighty river of my soul could gush forth as is its want, I'd be striving to bathe you every delectable inch of you in its waters!" He turned towards Prince Oberyn. "I do hope this does not offend you..."

Oberyn merely smiled. "It is my belief that beauty such as the Lady Ellara's should not be owned by any one man."

Garth saluted the prince with his goblet, a large and heavily gilded thing. "A wise and noble statement, which I can fully endorse. Ahh, what a fine pair you make! I truly do not know who to envy more for the having of the other." He gave a regretful sigh. "Ahh, youth, how I miss you..."

Oberyn gave Garth a companionable pat on the shoulder. "I assure the Lord Seneschal that he is forever young at heart."

"Why thank you, my dear sir," said Garth, taking the Prince's hand. "But alas, it is the rest of me I want young. Still, rest assured, that river I mention would have run as hard and as wet for you as for your darling lady, if alas, time had not dried it up, leaving only the dust and pebbles." He raised Oberyn's hand to his lips and gave it a kiss.

Oberyn smiled as giggles broke out around the table, and Lady Cuy laughed so hard wine spurted from her nose. "My Lord Seneschal is too kind. Indeed, I am honored to have the good opinion of a man who strode so long at the lists of love, and cast so tall a shadow..."

"And now I say you are too kind," said Garth, with a wistful shake of his head. "Ahh, me. I've trod my path in romance, that I have, and supped well at the feast, enjoying the goose and the gander, the cow and the bull, the hen and the rooster, and yes, even the capon, as they chanced to be served to me." The seneschal turned as there was a knock on the chamber's door. "Do come in..." His goodnephew Jon Fossoway entered nervously, as if half expecting to stumble on the party in a state of undress. "Ahh! Ser Jon! May I interest you in sitting for a cup?"

The Knight of the Lemonwood raised his glass. "There's even cider here from your own hall..."

"I must pass," said Jon, frowning. He coughed. "The Old Lady Dowager has need to speak to you. Wine purchases, she says."

Garth nodded. "Ah. That is a grave matter." He stood to his feet, steadying himself with a chair, and then gave the group a wobbly bow. "Goodbye, my sweetlings. I must depart, and brave the Queen of Thorns. If you do not see me again, pray for my soul."

The company gave assorted cries of disappointment. "Are you sure cannot stay longer?" said Lady Fowler.

"Alas, my goodsister grows even more prickly when delayed, and so I go," declared Garth. At the next burst of cries, he gave a dismissive wave as he went to the door. "Come now! Come! All my departure means is that you'll need to burn less sandalwood to keep this place smelling sweet! Again, farewell, darlings!" There was a wave of cheery laughter as the Lord Seneschal departed the chamber.

He and Ser Jon walked on in silence for a while. "Charming people, you know," said Garth.

"If my Lordship says so," muttered his goodnephew, rolling his eyes.

"I do say so," said Garth. "I've often felt that the Reach and Dorne need to put aside our petty differences and recognize our kinship! Of all the Seven Kingdoms, we two are the ones where we make love and war into arts!" Ser Jon nodded dully, and opened the door to Olenna Tyrell's solar. Garth gave a bow. "I thank you, Ser..." He waddled into the chamber, as Ser Jon shut the door behind him.

Olenna sat at her chair, flipping through papers. "So, Garth how was your little party...?"

"As I was just saying to dear Ser Jon," said Garth, taking a seat, "a delightful gathering, filled with delightful people."

Olenna gave him a sidelong glance. "And...?"

"Ahh, let us see," said Garth with a yawn. "Lady Fowler is making eyes at young Ser Qorgyle. As is Lady Cuy, though she is also making them at the young Knight of the Lemonwood. Wasted, as he has managed to bewitch our shining white knight Ser Ullwyk, as I previously indicated." He gave a shrug. "And that is merely the start-all fairly useful, I imagine..."

"Indeed," said Olenna. "You'll be glad to know that the Florents have been taken without incident."

"As I always say, gold in the right place is usually cheaper and surer than a sword," noted Garth with a smile. He shook his head. "Poor Lord Alester..."

"Oh, yes, poor Lord Alester, who wished to see us all cast in the dirt, and his own jug-eared kin raised in our place," muttered Olenna, as she put one pile of papers down, and picked another up. "My heart fairly bleeds for him."

Garth gave an admiring shake of his head. "Ahh, Olenna-I've said it before, and I shall say it again-you were wasted on my brother." He chuckled. "Gods, the children we could have made."

"I'd have killed you within a year for your lechery and your flatulence," replied Olenna, as she began to sort through things.

"And it would have been worth it, for every divine second," said Garth with a laugh. The Queen of Thorns glanced at him, gave an appreciative snort, then went back to her papers.


	31. The Butcher's Son (III)

**THE BUTCHER'S SON**

The scribe struck the little white wooden hammer on what had been the counter of Janos' butcher shop. "Order, order," said the little man, idly stroking the salt-and-pepper beard that covered his foxy little face. "This lesser assembly of the Great Guildhall of King's Landing will begin shortly." He glanced around the room. "Are the twenty-and-one witnesses assembled?" There was a general murmur of assent from the crowd, which the man seemed to ignore. "Two from the Smiths of the Street of Steel?" Two men made their way to the front of the crowd and raised their hands-Janos recognized one as Tobho Mott. The scribe noted with a nod and continued his call. "Two from the Butchers of the Street of the Sister? Two from the Bakers of the Street of Flour? Two from the Weavers of the Street of Looms? Two from the Mercers of the Hook? Two from the Coopers of the Muddy Way?"

"Fuck yes," said Mollaro Deem, the portions of his cheeks not obscured by tattoos flushing red. "Now get on with it."

The scribe ignored him. "Two from the Masons of Irongate? Two priests to see for the Gods old and new?" Azollo of Myr and Loren the Begging Brother raised their cups to that. "A wheelwright? A shipwright? A barber? A tavern-keeper? A carpenter? A cobbler?" At last he gave a nod. "And a scribe, to record it all. The twenty-and-one are gathered." He struck the hammer against the table again. "The Guilds of the Great Guildhall meet in this place, which for now stands in the place of that august building. May it soon be rebuilt!"

"Remember the White Table!" declared many of the company. Janos glanced at Ilyrio Mopatis. His guest continued to watch the goings-on with an amused, slightly superior air. _This must all seem foolish to him, a magister of Pentos._ It almost seemed foolish to Janos, but, in the end he was too versed in this world. The familiar cry and the familiar list that had proceeded it brought to his mind countless such meetings that had proceeded it, where he had come with his father, and before that... with his grandfather. The image of old Nyvar Slynt, with his snowy white hair, and the great black tatoo of a cleaver branded on his forehead, came to his mind. _Reverence_, whispered Nyvar. _This is power_.

The scribe glanced around the room. "We are gathered here to see Janos Slynt, journeyman of the Butcher's Guild, in good standing, renounce his membership in that august body, and transfer it to-the Guild of Mercers. Also, the Guild of Wine-Sellers. Also the Guild of Grain-Merchants. And also the twenty-five lesser guilds of those that sell. Is this is the case?"

Janos stepped forward. "It is, sir."

The scribe nodded. "And who speaks for these Guilds?"

"I do, sir," said a thin man with pale straw-colored hair going grey, stepping forward. "Tommen Brightflowers. A Master of the Mercers. Sir."

"Indeed," said the scribe, jotting it down. "And you accept this man?"

"As he is a guildsman of good standing, sir, of the Great and Honorable Guild of the Butchers, we accept him," declared Brightflowers, "if the fee is paid."

"And I believe a third party has agreed to pay this?" said the scribe.

"That would be me," said Ilyrio with a smile and a bow. "Ilyrio Mopatis, Magister of Pentos."

The scribe glanced up at this. "Respect," he stated with a slight nod of his head, and then went back to his writing.

"Respect," stated quite a few of the other guildsmen, though the expressions on their faces were not exactly welcoming. The Guilds of King's Landing tried to keep what ragged bits of custom of their orders as they understood, but the fact remained that for many, titles like 'magister' smacked of the decadent east that no proper Westerosi held with-and for the rest, it was a reminder of a life they'd fled across the Narrow Sea to escape. Mollaro Deem in particular seemed in an ill mood. Janos remembered something the old cooper said one day at his cups. _'I've been to Volantis, and I've been to Pentos. And the difference? In Volantis they look you in the eye, and say they are fucking you as they fuck you.'_

Janos shifted awkwardly, and glanced at the magister. This had all happened because he'd let the fat Pentosi stay at his house until he could get a secure ship out of the city. But the days had dragged on, and Ilyrio Mopatis had begun to grow nervous, and stroke his beard, and be cross to his servant. At last the merchant had took him aside, and asked if Janos had, perhaps, known people who could help him unload certain goods for perhaps a slight share of the profits.

And Janos had.

The first few sales Janos had engineered had been astonishing enough to the man, but as it continued, and the amounts Ilyrio wished disposed of had increased, Janos had all but been forced to take the magister aside and explain that, connections and friends of his family notwithstanding, if Janos was going to assist in this matter, he would need to be a formal member of the necessary Guilds. And to his great surprise, the magister had nodded, and agreed to help him take care of it.

Which of course, necessitated a Great Guildhall meeting.

"So then, this is the agreement-Janos Slynt hereby renounces his membership in the honored and revered Guild of Butchers, and all rights and privileges thereof, save for the right of his children and their children to seek apprenticeship in the Guild gratis, the afore-mentioned right lapsing if left unused for two generations," continued the scribe. He glanced out over the crowd. "Is this correct?" Janos nodded, as did several others. "Are there no objections?" The Twenty-and-One were silent. The scribe spent several minutes jotting things down, then pushed forward a sheet of paper. "Your contract, sirs. Please sign."

Janos walked forward, and put his name down. Ilyrio followed, and then came Tommen Brightflowers, and then one by one, the witnesses.

"A shame about your father," said Kespar Glyn of the Butchers, as he signed. "I've been meaning to pay my respects, but..." He gave a nervous jog of his head.

"I know," said Janos, with a sigh.

After the penultimate witness signed, the scribe pulled the contract back, and signed himself, his elegant handwriting just below a rather ungainly mark. "Signed and witnessed by the Twenty-One, in the Light of the Lord, and the sight of the gods old and new," declared the scribe, striking the contract with his little hammer, as Loren and Azollo both made quick signs of sanctification before sitting back down. The scribe gestured for a candle. "I will seal this, shortly. But consider this matter officially closed. Welcome, Janos Slynt, to the great brotherhood of those who sell..." He glanced at Ilyrio Mopatis. "As for the magister, I do hope the... informality of this gathering did not offend."

"I am... an adaptable man," said Mopatis, smiling. "Perhaps the next time though, your Guildhall will be usable, ehh?"

The scribe quirked an eyebrow at that, as he dripped wax onto the contract. "That might take a while, sir. We've been waiting since the reign of Aegon III."

Ilyrio blinked at that. "That sounds like... no small time."

"Oh, merely a century and a half," said the scribe, wrinkling his nose. "Roughly. I'd give a more exact number, but then history was never my best subject at the Citadel."

"You are one of the... chained men?" asked Ilyrio, his interest obvious.

"No," answered the scribe, as he sealed the contract. He pointed to his unadorned neck. "I earned not a link of my maester's chain. But I learned to read and to write, and to do simple sums. And so I returned to the city of my birth, saddened and disappointed. If I could see the boy I was, I would tell him to be of good cheer. There is decent money to be made with those skills in the Guild of Scribes, and you're allowed to fuck." The barber gave a loud laugh at that. The scribe tucked the contract in a small satchel at his side. "Of course, if I had my way, we'd have a man at the Citadel looking for all the promising young lads who keep failing their exams, telling them that King's Landing can use them. And that despite what they might imagine, it's fascinating work that exercises the mind in ways the Citadel might fail to. Why, I who used to slave fruitlessly over tomes, have gone to write tomes on several arcane subjects that the maesters' deem below their notice. Not that anyone other than my fellow scribes read them, but still, they have been written, and bear my name."

"What name is that?" asked Ilyrio.

"Baelor, of the Inkstone, to distinguish me from the king I'm named for," said the scribe, "though I fear if you mean to search for my work, you'll have little luck, and should you find it, the titles will scare you off." He gave a shrug. "I suppose I could try for something a bit more colorful than, say, _A Guide to the General Principles of Property Ownership and Bequeathals in King's Landing Common Law_, but as you can see, I tend to favor the functional over the decorative in my prose. So it's perhaps best to be honest, hmmm?" He sighed. "Actually, I have a case in such a matter to hear shortly..."

Ilyrio blinked. "You hear cases?"

"Murder, rape, theft, and similar crimes are the provenance of the King's Justice, and the Lord Commander of the City Watch," said Inkstone. "Lordly disputes and matters of property are the duty of the Master of Laws-though he also has a claim over the first group, as the master of those two fine men. Matters of fees and tariffs and imports are for the dock inspectors-and their master, the Master of Coins. But personal property, held by the smallfolk-that is a grey and murky area. Or rather a greyer, murkier area. There-well, one can always go to the King, or the Hand, but few do. Especially over the last few years. It is so much simpler to just handle things privately, with perhaps a well-trained advisor who can shift through precedence and custom and craft a settlement using them as his guide."

The magister chuckled at that. "And the Crown lets you do that?"

"The Crown, as a rule, does not care," replied Inkstone. "The Targaryens have tended to keep their eyes more on the great than the small, and as we keep them from having a constant supply of pig ownership disputes coming before the Iron Throne, they are content to ignore us." He gave a sigh and shook his head. "No, that is not completely true. Aegon the Fifth worked with us, and wrote a code for this city at the Guild's recommendations. I keep a copy with me. A sensible thing, which survived the Great Repeal that followed Summerhall. But then Aerys came to the throne and with him Tywin to the Hand. They did not like us, and so the Code was repealed. And having thus, to their minds, thwarted us utterly, they went back to largely ignoring us." Inkstone gave a shrug. "So it has always been for the Guilds. Aegon the Conqueror built this city, and then paid its inhabitants no heed. His eldest son followed his example-his second did not, and made all wish that he had. Then came Jaeharys, who raised the Great Guildhall, built the White Table that lay in the center for us, and bid the Guilds make the city prosper. For three-quarters of a century, we did. Then the Dance of the Dragons came, and the Hall was burnt. First the greens extorted our fellowships for funds-then the blacks-then the greens again. When it was all over, we were impoverished, and the Iron Throne continued to swear that they would of course, rebuild it as swiftly as possible. Aegon III showed a genuine interest, once he got free of his regents-but illness carried him away. His brother likewise had an interest-but the Young Dragon wanted a war, my namesake wanted his sept, and when Viserys finally got to the throne, he died in a fortnight. After that, the Dragons fell into a habit of either benign neglect or outright scorn. Meetings were held at the White Table for awhile, but then Aegon IV ordered it seized to amuse a mistress. And no one has seen it since."

"My grandfather told me of it," whispered Brightflowers, who had sat there quiet as the scribe spun his tale. "All white it was, marble and weirwood-save for the face that stood for the old gods, which was red, and the images of the Seven, which were all in gold..."

"One wonders what could be done for R'hllor, if the thing were ever found again?" said Azollo of Myr, taking a sip of his drink.

"Perhaps we could hoist some brazier over it, to stand for the fellow, ehh?" suggested Loren, as he poured another cup for himself.

Azollo gave a cheerful laugh, and raised his glass. "May I state once again, Loren, that your Seven are the most amiable false gods I've encountered?"

"Likewise to the Great Shining Lord," stated Loren, following the red priest's example. The pair clicked their mugs, and then took two great swallows.

"As for me I must be off," said Inkstone. "The matter of Tanner versus Waters will not wait much longer. My decisions may be, as I've indicated, only a paper shield, but that is better than no shield at all."

"May you handle it with skill, good Baelor," said Ilyrio quietly.

"It is 'Baelor' only when I write a book," said the scribe, heading out the door. "In day to day matters, a simple 'Bael' suffices." And then, with a sprightly step, he was off into the approaching night.

Ilyrio watched him leave and then shook his head. "So there is no Guildhall in this entire city?"

Mollaro Deem gave an unsightly snort, and ran a hand through his silvery hair. "The Alchemists have something they call a Guildhall, but fuck those fucking fuckers." He spat. "They're no proper guild! What do those fuckers do? Burn things, and figure out ways to burn things worse. Again, fuck them!"

Tommen glanced at him. "I've heard they can turn to lead into gold..."

Mollaro laughed. "Oh, they say that a lot, them and their fucking kin on the other side of the Narrow Sea, but all that ever happens is they sing and they dance and they make such a fucking noise, and then, when it is over, the lead is still lead." He spat again. "Fucking alchemists. They don't make gold, they burn it up. We're the ones who make the gold. And do we get any fucking credit for it? Fuck, no. The fucking lords think it would cost too much to let us make them more money. Fucking fuckers."

"One might wonder why..." began Ilyrio Mopatis.

"Fuck you Pentosi," declared Mollaro, glaring at the man with his deep blue eyes. "I know the lies that will spill from your mouth, and so I say stick them back in there, before they are even uttered. There is no freedom in your Free Cities, save in the rebel daughter, and I will not give the fucking Braavosi any satisfaction by living there. Born in Volantis, I am Westerosi now, and fucking proud to live where a man is no man's fucking slave, even if one is a lord, and one is not."

Ilyrio Mopatis stared at the man in clear suprise. "In Pentos..."

"Fuck Pentos," said Mollaro. "When the Red Judgement comes, it will be scoured clean, same as Volantis and the rest, and all the lies it says to the Braavosi will not help it."

There was an awkward silence for a moment. "Slavery is banned in Lorath," noted Azollo.

Mollaro rolled his eyes. "Fuck Lorath. Ever meet a Lorathi who boasts of Lorath? No? Well, there's a fucking reason for that." He glanced around the room. "Where is everybody?"

"They've been trailing out steadily for sometime, Master Deem," said Brightflowers.

"Well, fuck this then," said the cooper, heading for the door. "I've fucking barrels to make." He glanced at Janos. "Congratulations on your endeavors. And thank you for seeing if you can do something for my fuckwit son Allar. It'd be nice to know he's useful for something." Mollaro gave one of his customary nods. "May the Lord of Light shine luck on your endeavors."

Janos Slynt gave a nod back. He was a devout Seven man himself, as all the Slynts had been since their arrival in Westeros-save perhaps his grandmother, who Janos had vague memories of singing songs and praying prayers to some shepherd-but the followers of the R'hllor were decent folk for the most part, and most had come out of Volantis and the east, same as his folk did.

There were bonds that went beyond sept, temple or godswood. Guildsmen knew that in King's Landing, his father had always told him. That he'd been allowed to join the Sellers' Guilds was proof of that.

Later that evening, in his own house, when he had put Morros and Aella and the baby to sleep, Janos heard something, as he passed by the large room that the magister was renting.

"...say it! You have let yourself been blinded by these shining great lords, old friend. Things that would not have escaped your sight back in Pentos have..." came Ilyrio's voice.

Janos knocked at the door. "Sir?" he asked quietly. "Are you all right?"

There was a surprising amount of bustle, at which point Ilyrio's servant opened the door. The Pentosi lay on the extraordinarily luxurious bed he'd insisted on purchasing when he'd arrived. "Oh, no," said Ilyrio, with an exagerrated nod. "I am simply thinking aloud. A habit, I am afraid, the empty halls of my manse in Pentos have instilled in me." He shook his head. "An amazing thing your Guildhall without a Guildhall. In custom, it is a strange hodge-podge of the Free Cities and Westerosi practices, with... something else. Something unique to this city. Quite fascinating." He gave Janos an apologetic glance. "I hope I do not offend you."

"Of course not, sir," answered Janos.

"Good. Good." Ilyrio laughed. "Ahh, Slynt, Slynt. I have great expecations of you." He shook his head, still smiling. "Great expectations."

* * *

><p>Author's Notes: Obviously, I am wandering heavily abroad into the field of personal fanon here, but for myself, King's Landing utter lack of any sort of mercantile assemblage is... well, a bit of a gaping hole, and thus my explanation for it is 'something exists, but it's an ad hoc, cobbled-together thing that the Royal court more or less ignores, especially these days'. And that creates story opportunities galore.<p> 


	32. The Old Falcon (V)

**THE OLD FALCON**

The tension in the Small Council chamber was so thick, it seemed to Jon Arryn a knife could cut it, though it would go dull in the attempt. The King glared at the Hand, and the Hand glared at the King. "Lord Tywin," Stannis said at length, "I am finding the gap between your promises and your performance more and more irritating with every day."

Jon Arryn flinched at that, even if he himself was sharing the feelings. _These constant relevations-there has been a 'mishap' near Silverhall. Oh, and by 'mishap', it appears that later reports have shown that the chief Lannister army in the region has been largely captured. But there is a new army heading to relieve them, under the command of his brother Tygett. Who has been sitting in Lannisport doing who knows what prior to this... what are the Lannisters playing at?_

He shook his head. He could not let himself get carried away with his suspicions. The Stags needed the Lannisters to win this war, whatever the misgivings their actions filled his heart with. _Who knows, perhaps it is but shame?_ He regarded the still form of Tywin, nostrils flaring, cheeks livid. Tywin the invincible, the brilliant, not so either at the moment...

"Your Grace," stated Tywin at last, his words spoken with a cold dignity, "the haste of young men often causes them to misunderstand the caution of older men..."

"This is the first time in my life I've been called over hasty, Lord Tywin," said Stannis quietly, grinding his teeth. "I find I do not care for it."

"Your Grace!" said Ser Kevan rising to his feet. The Master of Laws glanced around the chamber. "We are all at edge here due to these ill tidings and blows of fortune, and none more than my brother, who has buried a goodbrother, and has another in durance..." He nodded fervantly, and shut his eyes. "And two nephews as well. Let us not forget them. I myself count my goodfather among those captured. These blows strike us as strong as you. Perhaps more strongly."

Grand Maester Pycelle stood up as well. "Indeed, Ser Kevan. You speak for all of us. Ill words do not serve any but our ene-"

"Pycelle," muttered Stannis, "I thought I made it clear you were to speak only if I specifically sought your council."

The aged Grand Maester gulped. "I... yes, yes, you did, Your Grace." A rather nervous smile spread over the old man's face.

"Well?" asked the King. Pycelle swiftly sat back down, as Brynden Tully chuckled quietly. Stannis gave a relieved sigh, and looked over the Small Council. "Perhaps we should move onto another subject. Any news from my grandfather Baelor?"

"He sends his regrets," muttered Lord Walter Whent, sighing. "But this sudden illness has kept him at Greenstone."

"Of course," muttered Stannis. "I would not expect him to move for his king and his kin. What do they count compared to Lord Baelor Estermont's bellyache?"

"The Myrishman heading the fleet at Gulltown reports he has taken two Dragon ships," said Jon, hoping this good news might cheer the room.

"Excellent," said Stannis, fingers tapping at the table, and teeth grinding. "If he keeps at this rate, we might be ready to move against Dragonstone in another six years or so."

"He is doing Your Grace decent service," noted Ser Brynden. "One shouldn't expect a sellsail to perform prodigies. Every drop the Driftwood Fleet bleeds is a drop it cannot replace."

"I can still hope for them to bleed quicker," snapped the King. "The trade they are costing us is no small thing!"

_They and Your Grace's tendency to seize large merchant vessels_, thought Jon to himself, though he was careful not to say it aloud. "Speaking of Dragonstone," he stated instead, "discussion with the Masseys is going quite well. They are insisting on Sharp Point being the price of surrender, but their arguments there are quite good-the present Lord Bar Emmon has no children, and they are his closest kin..."

"Tell them they may have it then, if they can get the Dragons out of it," muttered Stannis with a disgruntled shrug. "Why, if their opinion of their own blood is so low, there's half a dozen other keeps they may have if they can take them. Every Massey of age who wishes may then sit in their own little keep, and applaud themselves for making out so well in all this." He glanced at Ser Brynden. "Lord Commander-how stands our new Kingsguard?"

"Ser Lyn Corbray has agreed to take the white," said Ser Brynden. "A formidable warrior, though not a pleasant man, I fear."

Stannis raised an eyebrow at that. "Well, as I do not want him for his pleasantness, I see no objection there..."

"Some might question allowing the man who killed Prince Lewyn a place," noted Jon quietly.

"Some might question anything," replied Stannis. "To my mind it was an excellent start. Perhaps he will be so kind as to kill some of these other bothersome men in white cloaks who plague me so. Starting with the White Bull, and working his way down..." He glanced across the table at Lord Tywin again. "Lord Hand. You've been most distressingly quiet throughout these present discussions. Have you no council for us?"

"What can I say, Your Grace," replied Tywin softly, "that others have not already said?" He glowered at Jon Arryn. "Save perhaps to register my continuing surprise that the Masseys choose to deal with your... Master of the Great Seal, rather than your Hand?"

"We have discussed this before," said Arryn glancing away. "The Masseys approached me, and have proven most insistent that things remain in my hands..." _You are not trusted, Lord Tywin. And given your history, how can you be surprised...?_

Stannis stood to his feet. "Then, as we appear to be repeating ourselves, I call this meeting to an end. In summary-the Masseys are to be given Sharp Point, if it will make them do as they ought, my grandfather will not stir from Estermont on account of a bad belly, and the war in the west is once again on the verge of a glorious reversal in our favor, as it has been for every Small Council meeting we have held since I arrived in King's Landing. Now, as the High Septon has presently insisted I hear yet another petition from him, I must away." And then with a curt little nod, Stannis strode out of the chamber, followed by Lord Commander Tully. Lord Tywin sat there for a moment, frowning, and then rose to his feet, and walked out the room, his expression a bitter glare. Pycelle quickly followed him out, moving at a surprisingly swift totter, and then the three remaining members of the Small Council left the chamber together.

Once Lord Walter headed off towards the mint, Jon Arryn found himself walking beside Ser Kevan as they wended their way through the halls of the Red Keep. "You did well, back there," said Jon at last. "Keeping the peace in the Small Council."

"If that was peace," muttered Kevan, "I do not want to ever see the Small Council at war." He shuddered, and shook his head. "I am fast growing of the opinion that His Grace and his goodfather are best kept at a good distance from each other."

"And yet, here we stand," noted Jon.

"Indeed," agreed Kevan. He coughed. "I must thank you for allowing Ser Moore to stay in my service. He is proving a most effective Commander of the Gold Cloaks."

Jon nodded. "A good, reliable man, Ser Mandon. Merely give him an order, and he does his best to get it done." The pair came to a branch in the hallways. "I believe we must go our own ways here. Best of luck to you, Ser Kevan."

Kevan Lannister gave a nod, and headed away, while Jon Arryn walked to the small suite of offices that had been given to him. To absolutely no surprise, he found his young secretary hard at work there.

"Lord Arryn," said young Petyr Baelish, with a bow. "How went the Council meeting?"

"Better than the last," muttered Jon, sitting down. "Any news from across the Narrow Sea?"

"Lys and Tyrosh have both sent their... best wishes," he noted. "But... nothing more definite. Oh..." Petyr turned and pulled out a large piece of paper from a stack that had accumulated at his desk. "And we have yet another emissary from Qarth."

Jon sighed. "Is it Mathos Mallarawan's servant again?"

"No," said Petyr, shaking his head. "This one claims to speak for something called the Tourmaline Brotherhood. Whatever that is."

"Put it with the others," muttered Jon._ How many heads of state can a solitary city claim?_ He had to confess he was finding his supposed duties as 'Master of the Great Seal' both onerous and pointless. _What use is this? The Targaryens managed well enough without any sort of official head of chancelleries._ He sighed, and opened up the latest letter from Norvos, which he rather suspected was going to tell him that of course, the High Magister of Great Norvos respected the worthy Stannis, but... _Pretty words, and empty promises,_ he thought, casting the letter aside. _What better can you expect from the Free Cities?_ He glanced at Petyr and immediately chided himself. This lad and his father show that not all are worms.

Indeed, he was rather thankful for his lady wife recommending Petyr to him, when he had first mentioned the difficulties he was having at his position. _A lad who will rise_, thought Jon, as he watched young Baelish flip through a stack of letters. It was good to see Petyr placing the folly that had marred his fostering at Riverrun behind him. _Poor lad. Still, a lesson that needed to be learnt. One can rise, yes, but not **too** far above one's station._

But that was the past. In the present, young Baelish was proving an invaluable assistant. _And it cheers Lysa to know he's doing better now,_ thought Jon with a smile, as he returned to his work.


	33. The Knight of Hounds (III)

**THE KNIGHT OF HOUNDS**

Tytos Clegane raised his hand as the server poured his drink. "Enough," he said, then gestured to another. "Now, water." The second server came forward, and filled the goblet. Tytos gave a nod, and sipped it. "Ably done," he said to the pair. "My thanks."

"Such a courteous tongue our hound has," muttered Ser Alyn.

Lady Jeyne Serret frowned at that. "And what says it when it is not the hound who is a cur, Ser Stackspear?" she stated.

Ser Tygett Lannister laughed at that. "A touch, my lady." Alyn glanced away, looking distinctly awkward.

Tytos shook his head. "Leave young Ser Alyn be. I took no offense at that. Not truly." He sipped his drink. "An excellent vintage, I must say. Even watered down."

Ser Creighton Longbough glanced across the table at that. "I must say, Ser Clegane, your temperance is a rare virtue," he noted, as he quaffed another large drink of wine. "Keep your wits about you for the coming battle, eh?" Ser Illifer the Penniless rolled his eyes, and then cut himself another slice of mutton.

"Something like that," replied Tytos with a sigh. What little desire for spirits that was in Ser Tytos Clegane had been killed by watching first his father and then Lord Tytos drink themselves to death. His father had at least had a decent excuse, and a fairly decent death, by the standards of men who died pissing themselves, which was more than most realized. _He saw me a knight, before the end, and knew me, and wept for joy_. Tytos had wept as well, at that last meeting, though not from joy.

Lord Tytos' death had been less decent. Nor had the weeks and months that lead up to it, as his lord spent his days going between the two poisons that were killing him-drink, and the girl he called 'Sweet Elspeth', who all else at the Rock called "Wicked Waxy Elsie". Tytos Clegane had been left to look after the ailing man alone throughout it all, as Tywin, Kevan and Genna spent their time at King's Landing, and Tyg and Geri enjoyed the Free Cities. There were times when Tytos felt he was the only one left around the aging Lord who loved the man, though his master kept referring to him as 'Tion', and on one occasion, 'Tywald'. _A sure sign he was going blind from the drink_, thought Clegane with a scowl, as he scratched his broad neck. Nelyse had tried to see her former lover several times, only for Elsie's brothers to bar Merry Nell's entry. _He should have married that woman, scandal be damned,_ thought Tytos. _Lord Tytos would most likely have lived another ten or twenty years, the whole Rock would have been spared Elsie, and Elsie would have been spared Lord Tywin. A better outcome for all involved_.

Tytos shook his head. _I am getting old. I am starting to prefer the unpleasant past to the pleasant present_. He glanced up, and noted that Ser Longbough had wandered onto another subject. "...of the great houses," stated the hedge knight grandly, "but we Longboughs are an old one, with a distinguished history." Tytos supressed a chuckle. _You old fraud_, he thought indulgently. If he'd been in a place to have his pick of men, he rather doubted Ser Creighton and his partner would be among those he chose, but having had to take what he could get, he was not wholly disappointed in them. _Not the boldest of men, either of them, but then, boldness is not what an army in this situation needs. Ser Illifer is a man of good sense, and Ser Creighton... well, he cheers the boys. They may not believe he has performed the prodigies he boasts of, but he makes them believe they will go on to perform such things. And I'll dare say he knows it_.

"What are your words?" young Leyan Serret asked the hedge knight, the boy's eyes wide with wonder. Ser Tytos smiled to himself. _There's one who believes it. And why not? He's a young boy, who cares not if it's gold or brass he's looking at. Simply that it glitters._

"Few so fierce," answered Ser Creighton, chins wobbling almost magnificently.

"How admirably modest of your family," drawled Ser Alyn.

"Indeed," said Ser Tygett. "It's a virtue so rare among knights." Ser Alyn scowled quietly, and raised his goblet for another drink.

The young heir to Silverhall turned to Ser Tytos. "And what about you, Ser Tytos? What are the Clegane words?" The boy stared at him.

Ser Tytos shifted awkwardly. "Hardly worth remembering," he stated at last. "We're a young house, after all. Why-you look at the man who chose them."

Leyan Serrett's eyes only went wider, while Garret Flowers turned to stare in surprise. "You wrote your own family's words, Ser?" muttered the chubby young hostage, swallowing half an apple cake.

_There's a lad who's not minding his captivity_. There'd been as yet no reply to the news they held the younger bastard of Highgarden at Silverhall. Which was hardly a surprise. "Yes, but again, there's little remarkable about that..." muttered Tytos.

"Just tell them, Tytos," said Ser Tygett, with a grin. "Otherwise, the mystery will bother and torment them."

"'Honor the quest'," said Tytos, with a sigh.

The boys' eyes only went wider, and indeed the general expression of the company was quite favorable. "I say, Ser Clegane," declared Ser Longbough, "that's almost poetic it..."

"It's something of a pun," muttered Tytos. The hedge knight looked baffled. "'Quest' is a term used in houndkeeping for a hunting pack," he explained. "My father earned his knighthood thanks to his courage, and the courage of three of his dogs." _Alys, and Cerretta, and Bold Black Bella_, Tytos repeated to himself. "Thus, the Clegane words remind us both that honor is the thing we seek, and that we should honor the sacrifice of those who served us with distinction and bravery." He recalled Bella licking his cheek as a boy, and realized he had not thought of that in many long years.

"You honor dogs?" said Alyn. His eyes were red, and Tytos found himself wondering how much the man had been drinking.

"I honor dogs, and bold knights, and men-at-arms, and serving men, and smallfolk, and squires, and women who wait for husbands and sons that will not return, and yes, even villains and wretches who had courage and a bit of skill, if they had naught else," replied Tytos softly. "I honor my lord, and I honor my king, and I honor the Seven who are one, and I honor the old gods the First Men followed, and I honor my wife, and I honor my father and I honor my mother, may they all rest in peace. I honor, and I treat with respect the men who I serve and the men who serve me, and the men who serve with me, because that is the way of a knight, and it is the way to avoid having a man lose his temper, and driving his fist into your face to see if, perhaps, he can't break your jaw, or at least loose a few teeth." He raised one greying eyebrow. "Have I made myself clear, Ser?"

Alyn seemed to fall back in his chair, looking abashed. "Better watch yourself, lad," said Tygett. "Ser Clegane seldom barks, and rarely snarls. When he does, it's a sign he's close to biting..." Tygett turned to Tytos. "Have I said it right, Ser?"

"Indeed," said Tytos, raising his cup. "As my father liked to say, you may expect your dog to die for you. Not to lie for you." Tytos took a long swallow of his drink and set it back on the table.


	34. Cersei (IV)

**CERSEI**

_'Dark as a raven's wing',_ said the old woman, and then Cersei awoke with a cry, glancing around desperately. As her mind cleared, she realized she was not in the tent, not a little girl anymore, but a woman grown, and a queen. _And queen to what a king,_ she thought bitterly, hugging herself and shivering in her bed. She felt queasy, and suppressed a wave of nausea as she rose to glance around the darkened room. She had drawn the curtains tight and thick, and had thus had no idea what time it was, though it seemed quite dark. _Let us see... I had a meal, I went back to sleep, and..._

Cersei shook her head. In truth her days and hours of late were of such a sameness that telling them apart was becoming all but impossible. She spent most of them in her rooms, sobbing, and sleeping, and eating the meals they sent her. She'd been tempted to send them back uneaten when she'd started this quiet protest, but she'd simply grown to ravenously hungry to avoid wolfing down the food in the end. _But that was simple foolishness. I'm not trying to kill myself with this. Merely to teach them a lesson._ Cersei picked up the cover of the dinner tray that sat by her bed, and noted with displeasure that it was still filled with the remnants of her last meal. The smell of stale grease was quite overpowering, turning her stomach, and so she slammed the cover down quickly. _Gods, what a stench..._

She stood from the bed, and glanced around the room. _I've been in here too long. It's tiring me._ The last time she'd left had been to watch Jaime leave with the Northmen, and even then she'd stayed in the Red Keep, watching her beloved twin from a window, with the awful Eddard Stark by his side. _I hope he freezes up there,_ she thought, biting her lip. She'd avoided seeing him off in person, to make him pay the price for his betrayal, but she simply needed one last look. She had gotten it, all right, watching him ride off from a great distance, unaware that she was watching. _He is so beautiful,_ she thought. _And now, now that beauty is going to be frozen and smashed and ruined up there in the awful, awful cold..._

It occurred to her she didn't know just how long that had been._ I could ask a servant,_ she considered, then remembered that she'd ordered them from her chambers, to only come if she called them._ I suppose I could call one then. But what would they think if I called them, just to ask how long ago Jaime left?_ She shook her head, and sat back down._ They'd certainly think I was not well._ She hugged her knees, resting her chin on them, and rocked gently back and forth. _Perhaps I should go back to bed._

A thunderous knocking started at her door. _Probably more gifts from my lord husband,_ she thought with a scowl. Stannis Baratheon was, she'd learned on their trip up to King's Landing, a relentlessly proper young man, who, for example, always politely sent his page to ask if Her Grace wished the presence of her husband in her chambers this evening. And on that trip, and up until his first court, she had always agreed. After that first court-well, despite what she expected, Stannis did not send young Balon to her door that night. Nor the next. But on the third, he had come, and she had said no. There'd been no pages for awhile after that-but then after he'd agreed to let her see Jaime before he left, they'd started again. But not to request the pleasure of her company-no, they came bearing gifts.

First had come a necklace, silver and amber from the Stormlands. A pretty thing, actually, though hardly enough to earn her forgiveness. Other gifts had followed-a fine electrum mirror. A harp. A fine gown, though alas, in the Baratheon colors, which simply did not suit her. And after she had begun riding in preparation for her plan, there had been a fine saddle, a riding crop made of Ibbenese whalebone, and a book on riding. P_erhaps if I'd shown an interest in sailing, he'd have given me a boat. And then Jaime and I could have sailed it across the Narrow Sea together._ That brought a smile to her lips, though it vanished when she remembered her twin's cowardice. _If he'd only been a brave lion, we could have escaped together!_

The knocking was getting louder. _Insistent little fool, this one_. "I am not feeling well," she declared, in what she liked to think of as her royal voice, a commanding, lofty voice like her lord father's. "Simply leave whatever it is you've brought outside the door, and I shall get it later."

The knocking stopped. "Cersei," came the familiar commanding, lofty voice that made Cersei quail, "it is your father. Come, open the door."

Cersei rose from her bed, quick as she could, and rushed to get a robe on. "I... coming, father. Simply... give me a moment..." She shrugged the robe on, and tied it hurriedly. "I... one moment."_ I wish I had a servant here. This is so... bothersome..._ She moved to the door, and opened it. The expression on her father's face was so unpleasant that Cersei's stomach turned instantly, something she was sure Lord Tywin noticed._ I must really be a fright. I shouldn't have sent all the servants away. I should have kept one around to help prepare me for visitors._ "Father," she said at last, weakly.

Tywin merely scowled as he entered the room. "Cersei, we must speak." He sniffed slightly, and glanced around the room, his scowl deepening. "You must end this foolishness," he said, crossing his arms. "Now."

Cersei blinked, even as she tried to adjust her hair. _I am **the queen**,_ whispered a voice in the back of her head. _He should not speak to me this way_. "Fa... father, wh-what are you...?" was all the voice she could summon from her mouth said.

"Do you recall what I told you when you were first betrothed to His Grace?" said her father, in the sort of voice that one used to speak to a backwards child. "Win his affection. Beguile him. Is this how you plan to do this?"

"I... father, he..." Cersei bit her lip, and fidgeted. "You cannot make him... I can't change his mind..."

"You have barely tried," snapped Tywin. "Is this how you serve House Lannister? By hiding in your rooms like a madwoman, and refusing to do your wifely duties?"

"I... I haven't..." Cersei planted her hands defiantly on her hips. "Who told you this? Has Stannis sent you to...?"

"Your lord husband has done no such thing," muttered her father, rolling his eyes. "Have your wits simply fled you, girl? It is all over the Red Keep!" He shook his head. "Indeed, it would not surprise me to know it was all over King's Landing." Her father's green eyes, flecked with gold, fixed on her, and Cersei glanced at her feet, feeling sick. "Gods, I thought you were your mother's daughter-**my** daughter. Instead... Is this how I raised you, Cersei? To be a useless, twisted little fool? I thought the Seven had only sent me one such child."

That sick feeling grew, to the point that Cersei had to grab her knees and breathe very quickly to avoid vomiting._ He is... he is saying I'm **like**... He cannot mean **that**... I... I am his dear daughter..._ She let loose a sob.

Her father stood watching her with stony indifference. "Now, Cersei, here is what you will do. You will make yourself presentable-as you are most assuredly not at the moment-and you will go to your husband, and you will lie with your husband, and you will behave as a proper wife should. And then-then perhaps you will start to work at making him just a portion more tractable."

Cersei glanced up at her father. "Bu... But, father... he... it... he... Jaime... I... you can't! You-!" Tywin stared at her for a moment as she blubbered. And then he calmly, coldly slapped her.

"You will do this thing," stated Tywin, as he brought his hand back to his side. His eyes stayed on her filled with naked contempt.

Cersei felt awkwardly at her face, her mind a tumult. _I am the queen! The queen! How dare he do this to **the queen**!_ came one voice. _He... he did not do this! I am his favorite! His golden daughter! The one he smiles at! He wouldn't hit me! He wouldn't!_ came another. _Nononononononononononononono_, whimpered another voice, steady, and small and awful. "Suh... sorry," came the voice from her mouth. "Sorry, father. Sorry. I'll be good. So sorry."

Tywin turned his gaze from her. "Get a hold of yourself. And then do as I said." Cersei nodded quickly, and her father left her chambers. As soon as Lord Tywin was gone, she fell to her knees, and sobbed, and was sick. And then she rose, and went to make herself presentable. She considered calling a servant, but she didn't want them to see the sick. Or, after taking a good look at herself in the mirror, her in this state. _No wonder Father despised me like this_, she thought. _The way I look I do not deserve to be loved._

It took awhile, but Cersei at last made herself presentable, and emerged from her chambers to make her way to her lord husband's. _I am a lion. I do not fear lesser beasts. I am a lion. I am a lion. A lion_. Young Balon Swann, and her cousin, Lyonel Frey, were in the forechambers, and stared at her in surprise as she entered. She felt dizzy as they looked at her, but took a deep breath. _A lion. A lion. A lion_. "Tell His Grace the queen has come to enjoy the pleasure of his company."

Lyonel rushed to her husband's bedchamber, while Balon stood there, shifting about awkwardly. "Would... would Her Grace care for a drink?" he asked timidly. Cersei shook her head, not trusting her voice to a reply. Lyonel emerged from the room, and gestured nervously for Cersei to enter. Cersei stepped forward, and walked into the chamber.

Stannis lay in the bed, his expression at first puzzled, and then... well, she did not know what it was, but it was not warm with desire. _I am doing this wrong. He hates me now. He hates me now the way father hates me now,_ she thought. She took a deep breath and remembered what Lord Tywin said. _Smile at him. Charm him. Beguile him._ "Hus-husband," she began smiling broadly. "How... good it is to s-see you..."

Stannis rose, awkwardly from the bed, doing his best to cover himself with the sheet. "Cersei... what... why are you...?"

Cersei suppressed an urge to vomit, which she realized would be most unseemly. _Smile, smile, charm, beguile_, she repeated to herself. _I am a brave lion. I am a golden princess. I am lovely. He cannot hate me. He **can't**._ "I have been too long from... too long from my lord hus... too long..." But then, it all went wrong, and the words stuck her in throat, and she fell forward, and buried her head in the mattress, and sobbed long and hard. _I am pathetic. I am weak. He hates me._

She felt a movement on the mattress, and then her lord husband was beside her. He simply sat there, for a long while, as she sobbed, but then, at last, he began, awkwardly, to stroke her hair. "Cersei, why have you come here tonight?" he asked at last.

Cersei gulped and looked up at him. She did not see desire in his eyes, but she did not see hatred there either. "I... I have..." She sniffled and continued. "I have been too long from my lord husband's puh-presence." She sniffled again, and looked at him hopefully. "I hope... I hope this pleases Your Grace...?" Stannis looked away at that, his expression so pained that Cersei's stomach turned again. "I... do you not want me, Your Grace?" she whimpered.

"Not this way," said her husband, sadly. "Cersei, why don't you return to your chambers, and tomorrow, we will..."

Cersei's eyes went wide with horror. "No! He... Father will... I can't go back! Please let me stay here!" _I sound like a little girl,_ she thought._ Begging nurse to protect me from the grumkins._

Stannis gave a nod. "Very well." He shifted back, and Cersei clambered up on the bed. She remembered, briefly, nights when she and Jaime had shared a bed like this, for warmth and comfort, and no other reason, but that had changed many years ago. She curled into a ball, and shivered slightly. _What a little fool I've been. I doubt I will get any sleep here,_ she thought, before drifting off into slumber.

She did not know how long she slept, but it all came again, the tent, Maggy the Frog, the cryptic croaks._ 'Dark as a raven's wing,'_ whispered the old woman's voice, and then Cersei awoke with a scream. She sat up suddenly, dislodging an arm that had been placed protectively over her shoulders, an arm that she realized absently was Stannis'. It took her a moment to realize that she was in his chambers, and not hers, but then she remembered all, and her stomach did a flip-flop inside her. _No, no, not on the floor,_ she thought, glancing around for a chamber-pot. She found one just in time to let her sick out into it.

"Cersei," said her husband groggily. "Cersei, what is wr...?"

"Nothing, nothing, nothing," she repeated hurriedly. "Just... just a little sick..." And then she vomited again.

Stannis rose from the bed, and went to get his robe. "I will send for Maester Cressen," he said.

Cersei shook her head. "Py-Pycelle, should be Pycelle," she whispered, but she didn't say it loud enough, and soon she was vomiting again, while her husband called for his old maester.

When Cressen came he was pleasant, and calm, and asked questions in a delicate way that did not shame her. _It still should have been the Grand Maester,_ Cersei thought, even as a part of her admitted that Cressen's hand did not linger in that slightly unsettling way Pycelle's so often did. Eventually, the old Maester nodded to himself.

"What is it, Cressen?" said Stannis quietly. "Is it... anything serious?"

Cressen smiled slightly at that. "In a sense. Indeed, in a very real sense the most serious thing of all." Cressen folded his hands. "Her Grace is with child."

The room was silent for a moment. "With child," said her husband quietly._ No, no, no, no,_ thought Cersei, as Maggy the Frog's voice croaked _'Dark as a raven's wing,'_ in the back of her mind.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes: Yes, Cersei got a different prophecy from Maggie the Frog in this universe-consider it the simple problem of dealing with world's which allow a veiled knowledge of the future. Suffice to say, the prophecy she got was close enough to alarm young Cersei, and ultimately said the same general thing-'bad things coming for you and yours'-even if the as yet to be revealed specifics were different, and the universe rolled on more or less exactly the same in its aspects.<p>

Including poor Melara Hetherspoon, who yes, wound up down a well.


	35. The Black Bat in White (III)

**THE BLACK BAT IN WHITE**

"Your Grace," begged Lord Alester Florent as the guards dragged him before Viserys Targaryen's throne, "Your Grace, you must understand this has all been a misunderstanding."

Ser Oswell glanced at the king. Young Viserys perched on the small throne he'd been given by the Tyrells wearing the crown of red gold done in the shape of a circling dragon that had come from the merchants of Oldtown, radiating an eerie sense of command. He studied the Lord of Brightwater Keep through heavily-lidded eyes, hands stroking the scarlet dragon's egg that Lord Velaryon had gifted him. The 'Admiral of the Narrow Sea' was not in the court to see his nameday gift to the King being appreciated-among the favors it had won him was a prominent naval command in the upcoming campaign, and so he was in Oldtown with his newly granted ships-but his bastard brother Aurane Waters was enjoying it in full, standing on the king's left, even as Obara Sand stood on his right, spear in her little hand.

_My sovereign holds court flanked by bastards,_ thought the Kingsguard. _There is something ominous in that._ Indeed, there was something ominous in the king's manner. It should have looked ridiculous, a boy of nine wearing a little crown and cradling a large egg in his hands, all while seated on a chair and flanked by children a little older than himself. But instead it looked imperious, and savage, and terrifying. _His lord father would have given anything, to have been able to sit like that. This boy knows he is a king._ Ser Oswell glanced at Lord Florent, still begging pathetically for his life. _And this man knows it too._

At last, Viserys raised a hand. "Lord Florent," he said, in his light, boyish voice, "I am confused. My Hand, who is your goodson, tells me you are a traitor." The king gestured at Oberyn Martell. "The Prince Martell, my Master of Laws tells me likewise. As does the Lord Seneschal of Highgarden." Viserys shook his head. "I am very young and perhaps ignorant. But it sounds to me as if you are saying that these good men, who are the pillars of my government, members of my Council of Regents, are all liars. And that you alone are telling the truth."

Alester gulped. "I... I... that is not what I am saying, Your Grace. Merely that... that they have been misinformed..." He glanced around the room desperately. "I... it was Axell! My brother!

"Who is conveniently dead, from where you stand," muttered Garth Tyrell.

Lord Florent continued to speak, ignoring the Lord Senechal's comments. "He was acting by himself! I knew nothing!"

"Sadly for you, that is not what he told Lord Tarly, before being hung as a traitor," said Prince Oberyn quietly. "Further, there are letters in your hand detailing your plot, the confession of your son, Alekyne, that you spoke to him of gaining the Reach for House Florent, which has been confirmed by your nephews Sers Imry and Erren, your niece Selyse, and your brother Ser Colin."

Lord Alester glanced at his kin, eyes flashing briefly with hatred, before shifting into sheer desperation. "I..." He glanced around the court. "I... this..." The Lord of Brightwater Keep glanced around desperately for solace. "Lord Seneschal..." he said, at last, approaching Garth Tyrell. "Lord Seneschal, we were friends of old..."

"That is news to me," said Garth, fiddling idly with his robes.

"Will you let me be done to death in this manner?" whimpered Alester Florent. "Do you have not a single kind word to speak on my behalf?"

Garth Tyrell broke wind, loudly. "None I can think of," said the Lord Seneschal, with an expression that so lofty and dignified, one was left with the impression he was intentionally trying to make Lord Florent's siutation as ridiculous as possible. Much of the court was laughing at this, though the King and Regent Martell both allowed themselves only slight smirks, and the Queen of Thorns merely gave a snort. The Lady Alerie was an exception-the Young Lady Dowager, as she was called, glanced away, her eyes pained, and whispered something into the ear of Ashara Dayne, who nodded, and escorted her from the room._ And who knows when we will next see them in these chambers?_ thought Ser Oswell. _Not that I blame them, poor gentle souls._ He glanced at Ser Barristan, who was also watching the pair leave. _Nor would I blame him if he followed. Sworn brother or not._

In truth, the absence of the two ladies would hardly be noted in the swelling throng of this court-it seemed almost every noble in Viserys' court of age not heading out for the campaign had come to see the Florents be humiliated, save Lord Celtigar, who'd been suffering from loose bowels over the last few days. And now Lord Alester had to watch as they all laughed at him. He was fast realizing that no help for him was coming, and so at last turned to Viserys. The young king eyed the lord, his expression filled with contempt.

"My father would have had you burned," whispered Viserys. "But this was a mistake of his. It is for Targaryens to be given to the fire. To allow scum such as yourself the same honor is to shame my forefathers." He glanced imperiously at the court. "I sentence you, Lord Alester Florent, to the traitor's death."

Alester fell to his knees, tears in his eyes. "Oh, mercy, Your Grace, mercy, mercy, mercy..." he bawled.

"Very well," said the king, with a roll of his eyes. "I will have you beheaded. It is a quick death, and a better one than you deserve, you loathsome treacherous coward." Lord Alester threw himself on the ground, and began to babble nervously, alternating pleas with thanks, until at last the guards dragged him from the chamber. Viserys watched him go with a frown, idly stroking his dragon's egg, and then turned to the other Florents. "Alekyne Florent. Ser Imrys. Ser Erren. Ser Colin. All of you have confessed to plotting in Lord Alester's treason, by which you meant to undermine my rule, destroy my leal subjects and your own lawful lords, the Tyrells, and see your own House rise in its place. For these severe crimes, you deserve death as much as Lord Alester-but as I am a merciful king, and you have freely confessed to these crimes, you will be allowed to take the black, if you so wish it."

Most of the Florents nodded dully at this, with young Alekyne thanking His Grace for his kindness. A tall young woman with the distinctive jug ears of the Florents and a hard plain face already showing a distinct trace of a mustache gave a harsh laugh. "And now you wretches see what comes of betraying His Grace Viserys Targaryen!" she shouted. Ser Oswell frowned. A knight was supposed to revere and respect women, but the young Lady Selyse was a difficult woman to even like, with a soul uglier than her unpleasant face. She alone of the Florents had reported on her kin without being arrested, including not only her uncles and cousin, but her own brothers as well-and the reason why was obvious._ To be Lady Selyse is little enough, but to be the Lady of Brightwater Keep, that would be a great thing_. The Kingsguard shook his head._ This has been an ugly war, and it is like to remain so._

Viserys sat back in his chair, looking at the crowd dispassionately. "As both the Lord of Brightwater Keep and the heir of his body are now attainted traitors, it falls to the crown to decide where it will fall-a task made most difficult by the treachery of so many of its members. Fortunately, a loyal Florent of close descent exists." A slight smile came to the young King's face. "Thus, we grant Brightwater Keep, its lands and its income to the Lady Melessa Florent, and her heirs and descendents."

Selyse's face went wide in shock. "Y-your Grace!" she said suddenly. "I... you... this..."

"Does the Lady Selyse have an objection to the Crown's ruling?" said the king mildly.

Ser Oswell watched Selyse stumble at this, clearly at a loss. _And who can blame her?_ Her cousin Melessa was the wife of Randyll Tarly, young Viserys' Hand, one of the Regents-her heirs the son and daughter she had borne him. _Lord Tarly has done well for himself in this..._

"N-no, Your Grace, I... it is..." Selyse Florent coughed. "I... I had heard that... the Crown has plans for... a great marriage for me." The hard face softened as much as it was able, the desperation plain.

"Indeed," said Viserys. "My regents have spoken with the Starry Sept, and what they have heard is most encouraging. The Septa Hallyse having passed on..."

Selyse Florent blinked in surprise. "The Starry... Hallyse... Your Grace, I... You... I do not follow your meaning..."

"The Starry Sept has agreed to make you Head Septa of the Maidenshrine," declared the king brightly. "It is a great honor! Why, you will be counted among the Most Devout, wear rich cloth of silver, enjoy a fine set of quarters in which to contemplate the mysteries of the Seven..."

Selyse gulped. "But... I was... there was... I thought I would get a marriage! A great marriage!"

"And I am marrying you to the Gods!" said Viserys. He shook his head, smiling broadly. "There is no grander marriage than that I could give you!"

"Indeed, Your Grace," said Prince Oberyn, with a snicker. "In truth, I would argue that is a finer marriage then the lady would get in the general run of things..." Garth Tyrell chortled at this, and chuckles and bursts of laughter echoed through the hall-even the Queen of Thorns smiled. And then Ser Oswell found it quite easy to pity Selyse, even if he could not revere and respect her, as she stood there, alone, trying to fight back tears. _Cruel, cruel, all too cruel,_ he thought.

Viserys eyed her imperiously. "So, what say you? Do you accept this offer?"

Selyse Florent gulped. "I... thank Your Grace," stated Selyse, "and humbly accept his bountiful generosity to my humble person." She bowed her head, and then retreated into the crowd.

"Excellent," declared Viserys. "With these treasons dealt with, and these rewards for leal service handed out, I declare the business of this court done." He cradled his dragon's egg in his left hand, even as his right went to Prince Oberyn's gift to him, a fine blade of Dornish steel. "May the Seven guide us to victory in the days ahead!" he declared, drawing the blade, and raising it to the heavens, "Let us show our foes fire and blood!"

"Fire and blood!" shouted the court as one.

Viserys sheathed his blade as he walked out of the room, Garth Tyrell and Prince Oberyn before him, Aurane and Obara at his sides, and Ser Oswell and Ser Barristan following close behind. "You did very well," declared the Prince.

His natural daughter nodded fervently. "You were so kingly back there," said Obara, eyes wide with admiration.

"I am a king," replied Viserys, smiling. "It comes easy enough." He glanced over his shoulder at the two Kingsguards. "What thought you of that, Sers?"

Ser Oswell struggled with his response, but as usual these days Ser Barristan Selmy had no such trouble. "Your Grace, it is not for me to dictate the business of kings," said his Sworn Brother. "But were it I... I would have been kinder to the Florents."

Viserys scowled. "They were traitors. And worse than traitors, fools. Lord Florent made an utter ass of himself, with his lies and his begging. And that niece of his..." The boy shook his head. "You should have heard the lies she told to gain favor. She even had her kin sacrificing a boy in hope of favors from the old gods." He shook his head. "No, they were traitors through and through, even to themselves. There is no good in showing mercy to that sort-they simply find a new way to betray your trust later."

"Your Grace is very wise for his age," said Garth Tyrell, with an approving nod.

Ser Oswell frowned._ His Grace says the things you and the Red Serpent put into his mouth well is what you mean, Lord Seneschal._ It pained him to see men such as these standing at the forefront of the Dragon government-Oberyn Martell's reputation was dark as midnight, and as for Garth Tyrell, well... _Men laugh and chuckle at Garth the Gross, and why should they not? He gives them so much to amuse themselves with._ But check beneath the surface, with all the stories of the jolly fat man suffering from bad wind placed so pleasingly there, and a harder man emerged to the eyes. During the War of the Ninepenny Kings, old Lord Redwyne, the Lady Olenna's brother, had been captured by the pirate Nine Eyes. As Ser Oswell heard it, the Lady Dowager had been on the verge of paying his ransom, when the Lord Seneschal said 'With that coin, we could buy back one brother-or enough swords and sails to send this pirate king and all his crews to their graves many times over.' And so Lord Redwyne had remained Nine Eyes' guest for over a year, while Tyrell ships demolished the Ninepenny Kings' fleets.

_With men such as that to serve as his teachers..._ Ser Oswell regarded the King levelly. "Nonetheless, Your Grace, mercy is a great thing for a king to have," he declared, "the same as a knight."

"And there will be mercy, for those who bend the knee, and who are good and loyal men at heart, but misled for the moment," said Viserys, his purple eyes bright. "Men such as your brother, and his sons. Why, I shall even let Lord Baratheon go to the Wall, and let his brother be Lord of the Stormlands in his place. But others-Lord Tywin Lannister will die. Die in agony. By my own hand, if I can manage it. He had his son kill my father, it is only fitting House Targaryen return the favor." The young king's mouth became a hard line-so hard, it was almost easy to forget one was looking at a child. "My father told me much of Lord Lannister. For whatever may be said, he was a man of the blood of old Valyria, my father, and he knew things. He always told me I would be king after him. And he told me of Tywin Lannister's vanity, and cruelty, and pride. Told me that Lord Lannister had feigned friendship with him to gain power over the Iron Throne. Had poisoned his reign. Stolen his glory. Plotted against him. Taken the people's love. Done so many things that a king cannot forgive." Viserys shut his eyes, and nodded, hands stroking his dragon's egg. "And I will not forgive them. My father may have feared Tywin Lannister, but I do not. He has awoken the dragon. And the dragon shall show him fire and blood."

As Ser Oswell Whent looked at the boy, he realized that the young King most assuredly meant it.


	36. The Khal

**THE KHAL**

The khalasar had moved through the great sea of the Dothraki towards Vaes Dothrak with a slowness born of hesitation. It did not have to be so. The young man knew this for a fact, had seen Khal Bharbo make it move with a speed so great it seemed to fly over the ground. Not that Khal Bharbo would do this ever again. For his father was dead, and now he, Drogo, the only living child of that great man's body, was the Khal in his place, taking his father's khaleesis to Vaes Dothrak to join the dosh kahleen, and to let the Dothraki know of Bharbo's passing at the hands of Khal Khaggo, who he himself had slain in turn, in that great battle near the demon road, where the line of Khaggo had perished from the earth.

That is, if these dark tales he was hearing were not true. _As they can not be,_ he kept telling himself, even as a quiet dread took a deeper place in his heart with each new version of the story. That was why he had left the khalasar, and now rode his fastest horse to get a single look at Vaes Dothrak, the sacred city, in the most sacred of places. It had all begun a month ago, after the burning of his father's body, that Khal Bharbo could ride now with the Great Stallion through the heavens. "He rides now in the only khalasar now greater than his own," had sang his father's great khaleesi, his mother Drohisi, and as she sang it, Drogo had hoped, idly, that Bharbei rode alongside their father now. _I slew Khaggo, just as I slew Jhaggo's bloodriders,_ he thought, hoping that their spirits had seen this up in the heavens._ And then I slew Khaggo's bloodriders, with the help of my own. The line of Khaggo is ended, down to the blood of his blood._ And when the time had come to give the villains mounts for the afterlife, Drogo had chosen wretched, fleabitten mounts from their herds, and hobbled the horses before killing them._ Let them ride forever in shame, and ignominy, marked forever as the scum they were. It is no less than they deserve._

And with that, Drogo, now Khal Drogo until he could no longer ride, which he hoped meant when death took him, had begun the trek to Vaes Dothrak, to give up his mother and his father's three other khaleesis to the dosh kahleen. This was a great undertaking, for Khal Bharbo had been the greatest Khal yet living, whose khalasar, at twenty thousand warriors, was the largest held by any khal in these times. Khal Mengo's had been larger, and Khal Moro after him, and Khal Horro, after him. A wry smile came to his face, for it occurred to him there was little chance of forgetting that fact while he traveled with the Khaleesi Issei, his father's second wife, though she had been married to Khal Bharbo before Drohisi, frequently boasted of her descent from these men and of their great deeds.

This was largely because Issei had little else to boast of-her father's khalasar was a small, stunted thing that his father's had absorbed upon Khal Issmoro's death, and Issei had given Bharbo no children, only stillbirths and bloodbirths. "Issei's womb is as barren as her wits", his mother had told Drogo once, in private, and he had laughed, though quietly, for fool or not, she was still a khaleesi. In truth, these were little things to boast of-countless were the Dothraki in who the blood of Khal Mengo and his son flowed-Bharbo himself was a descendent, and he had been of no account at his birth, a humble herder of goats in his youth, until he had dared take up the arakh-and as for Harro... Well, Khal Harro had been a great Khal, in many ways, but few forgot that it was he who had killed Khal Moro, and ended the line of Mengo in its male branches, which had lead in time to the undoing of Mengo's great work with Harro's own death. The great khalasar that Mengo had built had split then, and it would only be reunited, the dosh kahleen had said, by the Stallion Who Mounts the World.

The trip across the Dothraki sea had been uneventful at first, until they met the caravan. Drogo had stopped it for his khalasar's share of the gifts that were to be granted for the privilege of crossing the Dothraki sea unmolested, and had been given them, in distressing plenitude, for this was a caravan of the East, and yet it bore the spice wines and fine jade that such a caravan would be taking to Vaes Dothrak, while it was going from it.

"In truth," said the Qartheen who led the caravan, "we recommend you do not go there, for your fellows in the city now run mad, or so we have heard, working great slaughter in the Markets. Men and women are cut down where they stand, and blood flows through the streets."

"You lie," said Haggo, his bloodrider, and also the son of his father's brother. "It is forbidden to shed the blood of free men in Vaes Dothrak. No Dothraki would break this."

The Qartheen grew very pale, always an accomplishment for one of the milk folk, for Haggo was among the largest of men, if perhaps not among the most quick-witted. "I only repeat what I have heard, from a merchant like myself, who saw it being done," said the Qartheen, in a small voice. "Like me, he returns from your sea with the full cart he came with." And Khal Drogo had thanked him for this news, and the khalasar and the caravan had parted their ways on the Dothraki sea.

"That man lied," said his bloodrider Qotho, whose father Qaro had been bloodrider to Khal Bharbo. "You should have given him to me. I would have made him tell us the truth, and tell us why he said such filthy nonsense." Drogo did not like Qotho, who was cruel when he had no need to be, and had once told his father this, when he was a boy. And Bharbo had laughed gently and said, "It is not for you to like him, my son, even if he is blood of your blood, and indeed I cannot blame you for feelings so. It is for your enemies to fear him, and that you must always remember." And indeed, when he had seen Qotho had cut down Khaggo's bloodrider Noro, who had killed Qaro, and then the bloodrider Morogo, in that battle near the demon road, Drogo had known the wisdom of his father's words.

"He gave us gift, as is custom," said his bloodrider Cohollo, who had been his mother's protector before he was born, and had been sworn to Drogo when he was babe. "Would you have us be honorless dogs, Qotho?" Drogo liked Cohollo, who had taught to him ride, and to fight, and to bring honor to his line, and who had saved his life, first when he was a child, and many times since then.

"What reason had he to lie, Qotho?," noted Drogo quietly. "You saw his cart. Full as he said, and not with the things of the west a merchant of the east would seek. No. There is some truth at the bottom of what that man said-or he thinks there is."

"Who can tell with the milk men?" muttered Qotho. "Their minds are all walls upon walls." But then he was silent on the matter.

The next caravan they met told a similar story, though in theirs it was a group of slaves that had set it all off. "Valyrians, from Mantarys," said the merchant, a man from Yi Ti. "Their leader, a three-headed freak, means to create a new Freehold on the ashes of Vaes Dothrak." The caravan after that, however, had claimed that a god, brought back by Khal Osso who had been making war in the north with great success, had sprung to life when placed in Vaes Dothrak, and run through the city, slaying all with a terrible lash. And the caravan after that had stated that it was mad old Khal Preisoo, called by many 'The Headtaker' for his habit of hanging the heads of the slain from his saddle and his belt, who had brought a bloodmage with him, and worked a terrible spell to kill all his enemies, in a wicked attempt to make himself the Stallion Who Mounts the World through forbidden sorcery. The black spells had first made the waters of the Womb of the World turn to blood, and then sent evil spirits throughout the city, slaying all they could. All these tales were told as reported to the merchants by witnesses, but not yet had the khalasar met anyone who had actually seen Vaes Dothrok.

The last caravan they met had seen the city. "We did not go there, great Khal," said its leader, a Tyroshi whose hair was dyed a bright red, and whose mustache and beard were dyed a bright green. "For coming within sight of it, we saw much that made us wish to flee it. Death stalks Vaes Dothrak now. Bodies lay in the streets, blood was everywhere, the men we saw rushed about bearing weapons, and there were fires. But as to the cause of it-well, we do not know if it was bloodmagic, or angry gods, or slaves, or madness, or what. We did not linger to find out. And we recommend, oh Khal, that sacred duty or no, you do as we have done, and flee that place."

Khal Drogo had visited his mother then to speak of this with her and the other khaleesis, Issei, and young Meirei, third wife in status, but his father's most recent khaleesi, younger than Khal Drogo himself, and pale-haired Relleya, mother of Bharbei, who was the daughter of a Prince of Pentos and a maid of the fields, and had been given to Khal Bharbo as a gift by that city.

"The khaleesis of a dead Khal must go to the dosh khaleen," proclaimed Issei grandly.

"So it has always been," said Meirei quickly, glancing away from Khal Drogo.

"And it has also always been that no blood could be safely shed in Vaes Dothrak," said Relleya quietly, Relleya, who his father had respected above all his wives save Drohisi, despite her lowly status, and who was his mother's dearest friend.

Drohisi nodded. "Indeed. If these tales be even close to the truth, then much has transpired that should not." Drohisi stroked her chin thoughtfully. While she did not boast of her bloodline in the manner of Issei, Drohisi could trace her descent back to Khal Loso the Lame, one of the greatest of the khals to arise after the great khalasar of Mengo had shattered, and in wiles even greater than he. In his mother, that blood showed, for she was clever and wise in all things. His father had always abode by her council, and as he told his son, he had never regretted it. "We should camp here," she said at last, "and send a rider ahead, to go to a place where Vaes Dothrak may be glimpsed. One man on a fast horse can outpace a khalasar. If Vaes Dothrak be safe, he will return, and we will go there. If not... then we will consider things." His mother gave him a lofty bow. "What say you, oh Khal?"

"This is the thing we shall do," he said. "And I shall be the rider."

His mother and Relleya looked alarmed at this. "That is most dangerous," muttered Relleya.

"You are the Khal," said Drohisi.

"And the fastest rider in this khalasar," said Drogo.

"But if something should happen..." his mother continued.

"It will not," said Drogo. "The Great Stallion rides with me." He shut his eyes. "I... it may be something terrible beyond all counting has happened. This being so, I would have one last look on the sacred city."

His mother was silent at that, and gave a single nod. And so Drogo had them prepare his fastest horse-the pale brown that had been his father's gift to him on the day he became a man-and headed towards Vaes Dothrak. His bloodriders wished to ride with him, but Drogo had convinced them that he had need to do this alone.

He had rode for a day now, with only a few breaks to give his steed and himself time to rest. And now... now he was within distance of Vaes Dothrak, could see the great horse gates...

And see the smoke rising from the city, the smoke from either one great fire, or half a thousand large ones. _This cannot be. It is the sacred place-the Womb of the World. The first man arose here, with the first stallion. In time, all khalasars will be gathered here, to follow the Stallion Who Mounts the World._ Drogo turned his mount, and rode up a tall hill for a better look.

The fires were clearer from here, as were the bodies. Drogo did not see a single living soul from where he stood. Nor was he sure he would wish to. He turned and began to ride back. _I have seen a great and a terrible thing on this day,_ he thought, and shuddered.

That night, as he prepared his bedroll, he was certain he would have dreams of horror, sent by demons and ghosts. But instead, he dreamed of sunny skies and gentle winds, and of an easy ride. He was seated on his father's great black horse, with dear Bharbei, her pale hair streaming behind him as they rode. Their father guided the horse, smiling, and they nestled at his side. "Look!" said Khal Bharbo, gesturing ahead. "Look my jewels!" The children did so, and gaped in wonder at the great walls of Qohor. "This is the work of the dragon men," Khal Bharbo whispered to them, "who were lords of this place before Khal Mengo was even born."

"They must have been great khals in their day," said his sister, in awe.

"Great khals," agreed his father. "Great khals, who rode dragons in place of horses." _This is a memory_, Drogo realized, as he leaned back against his father, and felt the comforting warmth of his side. _I dream of the past_. And then he awoke.

When he rose, the sun was rising, but a few stars still shone in the sky-two that lay close together seemed particularly bright to Khal Drogo's eyes. _I thank you, Great Stallion, for this vision. And I thank you father, and sister, for your wisdom, and hope that when the day comes that we ride together, you will not find me unworthy of that great company._ And then he began to ride back once again.

On his return, a day later, Khal Drogo rode into the camp, and returned to his mother and the other khaleesis. He told them of what he had seen, and he told them of the dream. "I think... it is a message," said Drogo quietly. "I think father and my sister were telling me... to go west."

Drohisi stroked her chin at this. "I must consult with the gods," she said. "They will tell us if you have intepreted the omens correctly." She walked back to the khaleesis' tent, followed by the others, and closed its curtain. Drogo turned his back, and shut his eyes, for the magic of women was not for men. For an hour, his mother and the others chanted. And then the tent opened, and his mother emerged, and they spoke.

Drogo called his bloodriders, and his kos, and as many of his warriors as could hear to him, and spoke, from the back of his mount. "People, I have looked on Vaes Dothrak, and the dark tales are true-a great and a bloody doom has come upon that most sacred of places, and I fear it would be death to go there." A cry arose from his people, a long and a mournful wail, as even hardened warriors burst into tears at this knowledge. "And yet the gods have not abandoned us. The voice of Khal Bharbo himself spoke to me, with a message from the Great Stallion. We are to turn and ride into the west. There, we will find what we seek." He looked out amongst the Dothraki. "I, Khal Drogo, say we will do this thing. Who will ride with me?"

For a moment, there was silence. And then Cohollo spoke. "I, who am blood of your blood, will ride with you."

"As will I," said Haggo.

"And I," said Qotho.

"And I!" proclaimed Kho Wai. "I will ride with Khal Drogo, wherever he will lead."

"I will ride with him!" said another kho.

"We will all ride with him!" said another, a doughty man with six sons.

The chant began among the khalasar. "We will ride with him! We will ride with him! We will ride with him!"

And so the next day, with the rising of the sun, the khalasar of Khal Drogo, youngest and greatest of the Dothraki khals yet living, turned and headed into the west.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes: I beg my readers' indulgence in what may seem like a strange divergence in the tale. Rest assured, ultimately what ties this back to what has happened in Westeros will be revealed, along with a better idea of what has actually happened in Vaes Dothrak, and what Drogo's going to do now.<p> 


	37. The Dark Lady

**THE DARK LADY**

Chataya lay still on the bed, and listened to the man beside her breathe, taking care to remain silent. He did not like pillow talk, this man, something he'd made clear the first time they'd coupled, many years ago now. Already an expert at the arts of love, she'd demonstrated that by doing exactly as he desired, even in this. And perhaps this was why she had remained so long, when so many of his others had been discarded, after a year, a month, a single night. And why she held a small portion of his trust, when the others had not.

"You may wish to consider selling this place, in the near future," he said casually.

Chataya blinked, and turned. This was a rare occurrence, and a signal to say something, for while he did not as a rule like conversation, when he initiated it, he expected responses. "Indeed? And why is that, my Lord Hand?"

Tywin Lannister regarded her with his gold-flecked green eyes. "My goodson is apparently possessed of the notion that he is Daeron the Young Dragon and Baelor the Blessed combined in one man. And so I must not only listen to him tell me how to fight a war, I must listen to him discuss plans to expel whores from King's Landing." He gave a rumbling snarl, and shook his head.

"Young men are often impetuous," she said, "and prone to see simplicity when they should see... complexity."

"I know this," snapped Tywin. "Must you parrot what is obvious to all?"

"I merely seek to comfort you, my lord," said Chataya quietly. "And to remind you that others are doubtless aware of your wisdom and experience, and how they may aid in correcting the king in his... youthful enthusiasm."

Tywin snorted at that. "Enthusiasm? No, not a word for young Stannis. He does not have whims and enthusiasms, this boy, he has dictums and opinions that have been set in stone." He shook his head. "Lord Arryn and I have managed to get him to hold off on closing the brothels till after the war, but he seems utterly taken with the idea. He even rejected a compromise I put forth to..." He sighed and rolled his head. "That is immaterial, now. I recommend you sell this place."

Chataya nodded. In her long dealings with Lord Tywin, she was used to such orders, given suddenly and loftily, with no thought as to her opinions or present circumstances. Indeed, she had half expected he would come bearing one along with himself through the secret passage, after she had received the coin that she had not had gotten for over three years now, the coin with a golden hand on it, the coin she had been expecting since the streets had run red with blood and Lannister cloaks.

Her mind flashed briefly on the last time she had gotten the coin, when the news of young Ser Jaime joining the Kingsguard circulated the streets. That time he had been silent and brutal, as she had been expecting, as he so often was. Lord Tywin Lannister was a man who went to women such as her in an eternal effort to excise some part of himself, for a night, or an hour at least, something he despised as weakness. There were such men everywhere, even in the Summer Isles of her birth, though less than here in Westeros, and Chataya had learned to please even them. For a night, or an hour, at least_. If he were a man less proud, I could teach to simply accept that darkness within him, instead of trying to destroy it this way. I could tell him that what he does only makes it stronger_. But then, if he were the sort of man she could tell such things to, he would not be Tywin Lannister, in all his awful magnificence.

"And where will I go then, my lord?" she asked quietly. "After I sell this place?"

"Wherever it is that whores go," replied Tywin casually. "Oldtown, or Gulltown, or across the Narrow Sea to Tyrosh, or Lys, or Braavos, if that pleases you. Perhaps to White Harbor, if you can stand the cold. Or back to your home, if that is your pleasure."

Chataya nodded, noting that one city was most assuredly not named in Tywin's list, and that city was Lannisport. _So this is how it ends,_ she thought. _Kinder than I thought it would be. The gods be praised for small miracles._

Lord Tywin rose laboriously from the bed, and began to put on his breeches before the leaded window of red and yellow diamonds. "There is one more thing," he said quietly.

"What is that, my lord?" said Chataya, an icy feeling growing in her stomach.

"I have heard of a child," he said quietly, turning and fixing her with a green-eyed gaze.

Chataya took a deep breath, doing her best to remain calm. "A girl, my lord."

Tywin nodded, and began to put on his shirt. "Bring her to me."

Chataya stood, and regarded him calmly. He cannot diminish you, she reminded herself. _He only imagines he can._ "I have been with others, my lord, as you are well aware of, and cannot say with confidence that..."

"Did I ask for your opinion on this matter?" growled Tywin. "Bring her to me." Chataya gave a bow, and then slid into her robe before heading out and down the stairs to Alayaya's room.

The halls of her house of love were thankfully empty tonight, save for a couple of drunken merchants in the common room who seemed as interested in singing 'Alysanne' together as the women they were with, and her daughter's nurse was likewise asleep. But Alayaya was awake, and peered at her, brown eyes bright and alert. Chataya placed a kiss on her little daughter's forehead, and then picked her up, and bore her to Lord Tywin.

The Hand was standing by the hidden entrance he'd had built in secret when he'd been building this house for her, also in secret. _A man whose mind was full of much twisting, the Lord Hand, especially as regards his women,_ she thought, watching him regard little Alayaya with suspicious eyes, poking and prodding her face as if trying to judge a horse. _To his mind we must either be pure as clear water, in which case he will claim us, or filthy as midden, in which case he will keep us in secret_. And she had little doubt where her daughter would stand in Tywin Lannister's green-gold eyes.

"I do not see myself in her," he said at length in a voice that Chataya could not decide was quietly satisfied or quietly mournful. He gave a firm nod. "It is doubtless as you have said. She is not mine."

"As we both agree," said Chataya softly.

"And she will never believe herself to be mine," noted Tywin.

"Of course not, my lord," she replied. "We agree on this as well."

Tywin nodded again, his eyes intent on her. "Place the child on the bed."

Chataya considered refusing, but she had seen that look in his eye before, and knew what it meant. And so she turned and placed Alayaya on the bed. Once she had set her down, she turned to regard Tywin. The Lord Hand simply stood there, eyes glittering in the lamplight. Taking a deep breath, she walked towards him. _He cannot diminish you,_ she reminded herself. _He only imagines he can_. One of Tywin's hands darted out and tore the robe from her body, while the other went to loosen his breeches. Chataya shut her eyes as he gripped her, and waited for the pain to start.

* * *

><p>Author's Notes: Obviously, this is my interpretation of something that is, at best, merely hinted at that text. Still, it's one I'll stand by, and hope that it doesn't diminish others enjoyment of this tale.<p> 


	38. Catelyn (II)

**CATELYN**

"And so were the seasons of my love," sang Barbara Bracken from the back of her pretty red gelding. "And soooo were the seasons of my looooove."

Catelyn sighed. Barbara had joined the group heading to Harrenhal three days ago along with her sister, Jayne, and since then the entire party had been subjected to her singing, with only the occasional pause. It was not that Barbara had a bad voice, though it was rather deep for a woman-it was that her taste in songs tended towards the improper and ribald, things like 'The Queen Took Off Her Sandal, the King Took Off His Crown', 'The Lusty Lad', 'Her Little Flower', 'The Whirly Whorl', and 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair', a particular favorite which she had sang at least half-a-dozen times. 'Seasons of My Love' was fairly mild in comparison.

_Perhaps she has listened to me after all,_ thought Catelyn. When Catelyn had broached the subject, Barbara had given a booming laugh and declared "And you a woman wed! And with a child yet!" But today, her songs had been things like 'Durnwald', 'The Day They Hung Black Robin', and 'Sing Soft My Lute'-some daring, some sweet, but none too improper. And many of the others enjoyed her voice. Her little brother Edmure had particularly enjoyed 'The Day They Hung Black Robin', and sung along with 'Durnwald'. Indeed, even now he kept glancing back at Barbara as she sang, in a rather disturbingly admiring manner. Catelyn shook her head, and noticed her father was doing likewise. A woman like Barbara was bad enough for Edmure to get involved as she was, with seven years on him, and few unsightly rumors. But add that she was a Bracken... _The Lord of Riverrun cannot make Raventree an enemy._ Catelyn glanced at the young Blackwoods, all making sure to keep a healthy distance from the Bracken sisters and their retinue. _I suppose I should consider it fortunate that Tytos Blackwood and Jonos Bracken aren't here as well_. Both Lords were heading armies in the war, far away from each other-Lord Blackwood involved in the efforts to retake Nightsong in the Stormlands, while Lord Bracken remained in Tumbleton, having taken over command of the Riverland armies there from Ser Stevron Frey, now even later than his father, having actually expired.

But the little cluster of Brackens and Blackwoods were only some of the guests with them. They had Pipers from Pinkmaiden, Vances from Atranta, Vances from Wayfarer's Rest, Mallisters from Seagard, amongst other Riverlord families... and a few more unusual guests, most of whom had wound up riding together in a little cluster towards the back. She looked at the little cluster. "Oh, no," said young Tyrion Lannister, his squashed little brutish face looking grave. "No, despite what you hear, we don't have golden chamberpots in the Rock," he said. "Much too pricey. And cold. But we do have gold goblets, and gold plates." The young Dwarf had come from Casterly Rock by route of the Golden Tooth, proceeded by ravens, accompanied by Lannister guardsmen and Vances. "I have come to see off my brother at Harrenhal," the misshapen young noble had declared boldly, without a hint of fear, and no one had thought to question him. _Poor little thing_, Cat found herself thinking. _What it must cost him to come here and hold his head so high, looking like that, and with a brother like the Kingslayer..._

"Father has a jade goblet!" said young Aeron Greyjoy excitedly. "From the far east! He got in the Basilisk Islands! He's been there many times!"

Urrigon Greyjoy nodded along. "And the Summer Isles too!" He leaned in close to Tyrion's ear. "His man Dagmer says the girls there..." And then his voice became a fervent whisper, as he told the Imp of Casterly Rock whatever details on Summer Island women he had picked up second-hand.

Catelyn shook her head. Those were some friendships she'd never thought possible. When the Greyjoys arrived along with the Mallisters, young Urri and Aeron had snorted to see Tyrion on a horse. The dwarf had frowned, and ridden his mount towards the pair so fast the inexpert young ironmen were toppled from the backs of their little ponies trying to wheel out of his way. And then Tyrion had had his servants help the pair back on their mounts, had given them a little instruction on riding, and within a day, turned the pair into his devoted partisans. The three had ridden together, told jokes together, and sung along badly to 'The Bear and the Maiden Fair' together. In its own strange way, it made a great deal of sense-Tyrion and the Greyjoy boys were both outcasts and strangers here, amongst the riverlanders. They were probably the only company they were going to enjoy on this trip. _Like as not, they'll forget all this in a month or two_, she thought. Still-not everyone seemed to think so little of it.

The two boys' elder brother Victarion rode unsteadily on his horse, and spent his time glaring at the pair, as they chatted and laughed with young Tyrion. Catelyn frowned. With a land filled with men like that, she found she could not blame Lord Quellon, wishing his younger sons to get out and see how they lived in the other lands.

"Why, Lady Stark," said Barbara Bracken, riding up beside her. "You, a married woman, looking so fixedly on young Victarion over there." She shook her head. "Shame, shame." And with that, Barbara gave another one of her deep laughs.

"I was merely thinking of things," said Cat, glancing ahead on the road, and wishing that she was already at Harrenhal.

"Mmmm, I can imagine," murmured Barbara, her brown eyes mischievous. "Mayhaps you could clarify a matter I've been thinking of, being married to a great Northern lord and all. I've heard from some that your Northerners' have members that are cold like icicles. And I've heard from others that they are wild, and howl like wolves when they take their pleasure in a woman." She gave a wicked smile. "Would you care to tell me which it is? I'm thinking of trying to snare meself a fine Northern husband, but I'd like to know what circumstances I'd be in, in the marital bed." Catelyn felt her mouth tighten and her cheeks burn, as Barbara watched. "Ahh. So it's the icicles then. You have my condolences." And then with another booming laugh, Barbara Bracken rode away.

_Do not rise to her,_ Catelyn reminded herself. _She is... ill-mannered, and no better than she should be._ Barbara's mother had died when she was young, and Lord Jonos had responded by leaving most of his daughters' education to their wet nurses, rather than bothering with a septa. In Barbara's case, it most certainly told. Glancing ahead, she saw a familiar set of misshapen towers come into view.

"Behold, Harrenhal!" said Tyrion Lannister. "The largest castle raised by man!" He glanced at Aeron confidently. "Casterly Rock is bigger, of course, but it was not raised."

Aeron stared at Harren the Black's castle with his eyes wide. "It's... it's..." He shook his head. "Why'd he build it so far inland? His longboats..."

"Were based off the God's Eye," answered Tyrion, gesturing to the lake.

Urrigon shook his head. "It's still... he could have built half a dozen castles with those stones, and put his men in them. Ruled over every river crossing and every stream." He gave an assured nod. "That's what I would have done."

"Well, I guess Aegon the Conqueror was fortunate he had to face Harren Hoare, and not Urrigon Greyjoy," said Tyrion.

"There was a Urrigon Greyjoy then!" said Aeron. He blinked. "Well-in Harren's father's time! He told Halleck that it was madness to try the Bloody Gate again, after being repulsed twice. So Halleck tied to the end of the battering ram when he tried again."

Urrigon shook his head. "Bloody Hoares. Bastards deserved to burn."

Aeron continued to stare at the huge ruin of a castle. "I wonder what he thought, when all he built turned to fire..."

"I imagine it was something like, 'oh, I do hope that I just spilled some wine in my lap'," said Tyrion.

The brothers Greyjoy considered that moment, and then burst out into loud laughter.


	39. Gerion (II)

**GERION**

Freckled Fanna and Lovely Lyta were dancing together as the fiddler and the lautist played, and the crowd in the Singing Sisters clapped their hands in time with the music. Gerion clapped louder and harder than any of them, even as he cleared his throat and began to sing.

"Oh, a Dragonlord there was, a mighty Dragonlord he,  
>And he ruled by the sword, and he ruled by the flame,<br>Till Valyria, it sank into the sea!"

The crowd gave a howl as they clapped out the time. "Into the sea, into the sea!" they sang, "Valyria, it sank into the sea!" Gerion gave a nod and began the second verse.

"This Dragonlord built him a mighty tower,  
>A symbol of his might and of his power,<br>For a Dragonlord he was, a mighty Dragonlord he,  
>Who ruled by the sword, and who ruled by the flame,<br>Till Valyria, it sank into the sea!"

_I should have been a tavern singer,_ he thought to himself, as he watched the crowd sing the chorus._ I've the gift for it, and it's something where no one cares if you're hungover in the morning, for they're all hungover themselves, so who are they to judge?_ He cleared his throat and began the next verse.

"And there he placed a dame so fair,  
>With gladsome eye and pale long hair,<br>At the very top of his mighty tower,  
>Which was symbol of his might and power,<br>For a Dragonlord he was, a mighty Dragonlord he,  
>Who ruled by the sword, and who ruled by the flame,<br>Till Valyria, it sank into the sea!"

_How we love to hear of the mighty made low,_ thought Gerion, as the crowd gleefully sang, "Into the sea, into the sea, Valyria it sank into the sea!" Lyta and Fanna took his arms, and he began to swing them around as he sang.

"And a babe he would place there,  
>A bonny babe to be his heir,<br>That he put in the dame so fair,  
>With gladsome eye and pale long hair,<br>At the very top of his mighty tower,  
>Which was symbol of his might and power,<br>For a Dragonlord he was, a mighty Dragonlord he,  
>Who ruled by the sword, and who ruled by the flame,<br>Till Valyria, it sank into the sea!"

"Into the sea, into the sea," began the crowd, when the gold cloaks entered the tavern. As the song came to an abrupt end, with two more verses left to be sung, it occurred to Gerion that he knew the man leading them. "Ser Preston Greenfield," he said, cheerfully. "So good to see you here. Would you like a drink? They serve excellent drinks."

"I'd rather not," muttered Ser Preston, who seemed almost embarrassed to be named. "Master Gerion, we've been sent..."

"Oh, I'm know that someone or other sent you," drawled Gerion, "to get me, and take me somewhere, so that I can likely get a stern talking to. But there's a path betwixt here and there, and on that path a drink may lie. Or perhaps two drinks. Or maybe even three, or-dare we be daring-I say we durst-four! Four drinks! Enough to make us all merry!" He glanced around at the room. "What say you all?" The crowd gave a great cheer.

"Master Gerion..." began Ser Preston.

"No, no, no," continued Gerion. "Here I am not 'Master Gerion'. Here I am Gerion Lannister, the Lord of Misrule! The Emperor of Wastrels and Good Cheer! The God-King of Bliss!" He turned and kissed Lyta, then turned back to Ser Preston. "Have I introduced you to my friends? I think not. The woman whose breast I'm fondling is the Lovely Lyta, while the woman whose hands are presently down my pants if I am not mistaken is the equally appropriately named Freckled Fanna." He leaned his head back and gave Fanna a kiss on the cheek.

"Charmed, I'm sure," said Fanna, snaking a hand out to offer Ser Preston to kiss.

The knight regarded said hand as if it were some sort of dangerous animal come from an exotic land. "Master Gerion, we really must..."

"What, are you not charmed by Freckled Fanna?" snapped Gerion. "Have you any idea what a grave insult that is to a whore? Have you?" Ser Preston glanced around nervously, while one of the gold cloaks was surreptitiously helping himself to a drink. "It is a grave insult-a grave insult indeed, and the Lord Paramount of Merriment does not brook it! He does not brook it, Ser! It requires punishment! Grave punishment!" Gerion stepped away from the women, clapping his hands together. "You must be flogged! Flogged with kisses! And then finished off by having your head dunked in ale!" He turned around to the crowd. "What say you all?" They gave a great, lusty hurrah.

"Ser Kevan wishes to see you," said Ser Preston quietly. "Immediately."

Gerion frowned. "Oh, very well. I issue a pardon." He spread his hands out magisterially. "You will NOT be flogged with kisses and dunked in ale." He turned toward the knight, and pointed at him dramatically. "But I warn you, I am put out, and when Gerion Lannister is put out-he is _quite_ put out." He straightened himself. "Let us go, Ser. Let us go."

As they moved towards the door, Ser Preston leaned towards Gerion's ear. "Would you like some... help...?"

"I can walk unaided," snarled Gerion quietly.

They walked the streets in silence then as they made their way to the Red Keep, and if seemed to Gerion that half of those they passed stared at him, while the other half made a concerted effort not to. _They should all be looking,_ he thought. _They should be calling from the corners and the alleyways 'Behold! It is the great disgrace of Casterly Rock!'_ A small boy was gawking at him. Gerion gave him a wink.

The Red Keep was silent when they reached it, and here almost all did their best to avoid looking at him. _Come now, come, people. Take a look! Take a long one! I am the proof that Lannisters are mortals, the same as you! We bleed, and drink, and cry, and piss, and vomit, and shit ourselves, like anyone else! Treasure this moment! Treasure it and savor it always!_ Ser Preston opened the door to Kevan's offices in silence. Gerion took a deep breath and entered.

The room was all but empty when he came in, so Gerion sat down on a broad-backed chair that lay before a desk with a single candle burning low on it, and adjusted his shirt. Somehow, that brought Nell to his mind, doing that when he was a boy. 'You look so like your mother,' his father had said one day, with a sad smile, and Gerion had been confused, because he had a vague little boy's understanding that Nell was his mother, and they looked nothing alike. Gerion shut his eyes. _'Be brave, my sweetling,'_ came her voice to his ears. _'Be strong and brave.'_ When he opened them, Kevan had entered the room.

"Geri," said Kevan with a slow, terrible shake of his head. "Must you do this?"

Gerion took a deep breath. While Tywin terrified him, in some ways, he did not unnerve him the way Kevan did at times, because while Tywin could cause many unpleasant things to happen to his brother, he could not hurt him in any way that mattered the way Kevan could. Such as the way he was doing right now, by staring at him with his deep, strong green eyes. "Well, it passes the time," said Gerion with a smile.

Kevan gave a snort, as he seated himself opposite his brother. "I hope you realize, as you are out there making an ass of yourself, how tense things are for us right now."

"For you, and for Tywin," corrected Gerion. "I'm the well-liked Lannister."

"They like your coin, Geri," said Kevan. "Which we supply."

"I still have some of my inheritance left," muttered Gerion weakly.

"A tense time," continued Kevan, ignoring him. "The war in the west proves... troublesome. The matter of Jaime... And then there is the strain between Lord Tywin and the King..."

"'Oh, who are you,' the proud lord said, 'that I must bow so low?'" sang out Gerion lowly.

"The King is no Reyne, Gerion," said Kevan quietly.

"I think you miss my meaning, brother," said Gerion with a smile. "But still-your warning is taken. I will keep my debauches to a minimum and try to maintain a certain measure of decorum during them. Perhaps I shall insist all my companions dress in Myrish lace..."

"Geri..." began his brother.

Gerion turned to stare at the candle, the flame beguiling him as it danced. He passed his hand over it quickly. "Of course, that would be rather expensive, but I'm certain the results would be worth it..." He held his hand over the flame.

"Geri..." muttered Kevan in growing alarm.

"It's not hard to do, Kevan," continued Gerion calmly, as the pain began to shoot up his arm. "All one has to do is not mind..."

Kevan rubbed his temples. "Geri, I have not called you here because of your drinking, even if I am gravely disappointed that I have to send the gold cloaks to the winesinks to find you. I have called you here because we have need of you."

Gerion blinked, and jerked his smarting hand back from the candle's flame, an image of cervasse pieces clattering to the floor leaping unbidden to his mind. "You have... What do you... Why... What would you have me do?"

"Lord Stark and his men are on their way to Harrenhal, with Jaime," said Kevan. "It would be easy for a small party-a man and a couple guards, for example-to catch up with them, so that they may attend Lady Shella's festivities."

Gerion raised an eyebrow. "And you want me at Harrenhal to do... what?" he asked, even as he began to suspect just what his brothers wanted of him.

Suspicions that Kevan's answer confirmed.


End file.
